


As the World Falls Down

by Khirsah



Series: A Dragon Age Fairy Tale [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Cinderella Elements, Costume Parties & Masquerades, F/M, Includes ART!, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-03-08 00:21:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 69,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3188765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khirsah/pseuds/Khirsah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the kink meme prompt:</p><p>Josephine holds an Orlesian-style ball at Skyhold and everyone is to attend masked and out of uniform. Trevelyan decides that this is the perfect time to blow off some steam without giving anyone reason to brag about having slept with the Herald of Andraste, so she finds a partner for some masked, inebriated, anonymous sex.</p><p>Unfortunately, she didn't realize that her stressed out, buttoned-down Commander had the same idea...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Art in Chapter Six by the incredible Feylen. Visit her tumblr to tell her how amazing she is!   
> http://feylen.tumblr.com/

“I should have a report on my desk in three days. Two, if I ask them to march through the night.” Cullen quirked a brow even as he slid the iron pieces across the map. She could read the silent question there as easily as the script of one of his most painstakingly formal reports: _Your call, Inquisitor._

“Three should be fine,” Elayne said. “There’s no need to rush.”

He gave a curt nod. “As you say.”

“And with _that_ accomplished,” Leliana added, leaning against the lip of the table to study the war map with a critical eye, “I believe we’re finally finished for the evening. Thank the Maker. There’s a copper tub and scented salts calling my name.”

“A fire and one of Varric’s manuscripts for me,” Elayne said with a half smile, tucking back a loose strand of hair. It drifted from its tight coif, springing into an unruly curl. Some days, the moisture of Skyhold defied even her most determined attempts to keep the long, thick mass contained. “And Andraste willing, six full hours of uninterrupted sleep.”

“Six? How decadent!”

They began to drift toward the heavy War Room doors, only to be pulled up short by Josephine’s polite cough. “ _Actually_ ,” Josephine said, shifting her tablet to riffle through a stack of papers.

Elayne bit back a groan. They had been debating (arguing) over the war table for nearly three hours, all on the heels of a week-long march through the Graves. She was sore, exhausted, and still stinking of rashvine. The last thing she wanted was more work. But she forced herself to drift back toward the table with a ghost of a smile. Leliana looked less pleased, Elayne noticed; Cullen was…well. She wasn’t always very good at reading the former Templar, even after all this time. “How can we help?” Elayne asked, refusing to allow herself to sound half as tired as she was.

“If only I can locate—Ah! Here we are.” Josephine tugged three folded parchments from the stack of official documents and handed them over, one for each of them. Elayne took hers with knitted brows, turning it over in her hands. It was thick, creamy stock, her formal title written in careful calligraphy across the front. The back was sealed with gold-colored wax and the ambassador’s official stamp.

“What is this?” Elayne asked, only to be interrupted by Leliana’s low groan.

“Josie you didn’t,” she protested.

Josephine lifted her chin. “It would be a great benefit to the Inquisition if the nobles were to see us as their cultural equals. There are still some who consider us as little more than barbarian upstarts.”

“But a _ball_? Here? Is it really wise to open our doors to so many at once?”

Elayne looked up from the half-opened invitation with a start. “A _what_?”

“No,” Cullen said.

“An Orlesian masked ball,” Josephine explained. “I’ve been working with Vivienne on the details. You needn’t worry: I have everything under control, and security won’t be—”

“No,” Cullen said.

“— _won’t be an issue_ ,” she plowed on, casting him a narrowed look. “I’ve already combed through the guest list for any potential…malcontents. There will be no troubles letting such a number come to Skyhold.” Then, because she was nothing if not honest: “…most likely.”

Elayne blew out a breath. A ball. A masked Orlesian ball, here at Skyhold. “But I barely muddled through The Winter Palace,” she murmured as she scanned the ornate invitation. She’d been terrified of saying or doing the wrong thing the entire time, holding herself as still as a statue of blessed Andraste herself. Even though she technically came from noble stock—if the Orlesians considered the Free Marchers anything but baffling distant cousins—years in the Circle had stripped away all but the most basic of early lessons on etiquette. She’d somehow managed to bungle through well enough to win the court’s support, but the idea of trying to do it _again_ … And in her own _home_ …

“I barely _survived_ The Winter Palace,” Cullen muttered. “I say we call a halt to this nonsense and settle our alliances the good old-fashioned way.”

Leliana tapped a finger to her lips, pretending to consider. “Well,” she drawled, “if you insist, there _were_ several interesting offers for your hand in the wake of Halamshiral. You as well, Inquisitor.”

“This is true,” Josephine interrupted smoothly. She arched a brow at Cullen’s snort. “If you _do_ insist on doing things the old-fashioned way.”

“How about we compromise,” Elayne cut in smoothly before her advisors could shift from playful to bickering. She’d learned from experience when to step in and try to wrest back control—and blast it all, she _really_ wanted to finish the serial Varric had promised to leave on her desk. He’d claimed he’d make it salacious enough so that mucking through the Graves would almost feel worthwhile. “Our doors will gladly open to whomever Josephine thinks we should invite, _after_ both Leliana and Cullen have had a chance to vet the list. None of us will be required to attend,” though that was more for Cullen, Cassandra, and the others; she was under no illusions that her presence would be _very much_ required, “and all guests will be politely urged to shove off after no more than two days.”

Josephine made a strained face.

“…three. Four only if they’re willing to line our pockets with enough gold to make it worth the headache.”

“And we are _not_ required to attend?” Cullen confirmed, zeroing in on the most important point.

Leliana waved a hand. “You are free to be as much a hermit as you wish,” she said. “I agree to those terms, Inquisitor.”

“As do I. It will be splendid; you will see,” Josephine assured her with a broad smile. Despite her exhaustion and the sinking feeling that she was going to have to wear that heavy red velvet coat she’d done her best to shove to the very back of her wardrobe—and possibly, because this was _her_ luck, fight a demon or six while wearing it—Elayne smiled back. “We will be the toast of Orlais.”

 _For all the right reasons, I hope_. “Good. Ser Cullen,” she added, glancing at her master of arms. “Are you content?”

“ _No_ ,” he said, but there was a faint smile toying at the corners of his mouth. “But I know when to surrender. I’ll be in the tower for the next week if anyone needs me.”

“I’ll be sure to send Sera with any messages,” Elayne promised with her widest, sweetest smile.

The Templar’s splutter, underscored by the laughter of her ambassador and spymaster, did much to soothe her tired, heavy heart. _This_ , she reminded herself as she officially called an end to their council, _is the true beating heart of the Inquisition._ She could suffer through another ball if that’s what it took to keep them going.

…though Maker save her if another Grand Duchess asked for a dance.


	2. Chapter 2

It was amazing what Josephine could do—and how _quickly_ she could get it done—when she truly put her mind to it. By the time Elayne reluctantly left her fireplace to return Varric’s manuscript, servants were already sweeping through the Great Hall like a hive of industrious bees.

It was a lot like stumbling into the middle of one of Sera’s grenades. The effect was…disorienting.

She froze at the doorway to her chambers, warily watching as deft hands pulled down the familiar draperies and heraldry. There were huge crates stacked just beyond the dais, nearly blocking the entrance to the undercroft. Fancy Orlesian seals glinted in the flickering torchlight. Down at the other end of the hall, men were carting in massive gleaming oak tables and silk brocade chairs that were far finer than anything Elayne had chosen in the first weeks at their new home. It hurt, a little, to see the familiar hewn wood benches being hauled away. Now there was very little of the Marches left in the echoing space.

“No way the dancers’ll be able to hear squat all the way down in the undercroft,” one of the workmen muttered as a knot of them passed by. “We’ll haveta get a separate orchestra down by the grating—unless Madame de Fer has some magey trick to carry the sound from her balcony.”

“Maker preserve us,” Elayne murmured, clasping the bound pages to her chest as she watched them push past the crates on their way down to the undercroft. Were Josephine and Vivienne planning to remake the _entire_ keep in Orlais’ image? She edged her way carefully down the length of the hall, doing her best to keep out of the way of the buzzing activity. It was already well into evening, but they showed no signs of slowing. If anything, more lights were being brought in and the workers seemed set to labor long into the night…whether they liked it or not.

“Please do be careful with that, dear,” Vivienne’s voice called above the chaos. “I assure you, it is more expensive than you are.”

Elayne turned in a slow circle as she walked, watching three of Cullen’s former Templars carrying a huge rolled rug, hoisted over their shoulders like a tree log. The door to Solas’ solar was thrown open, and she could just spot him watching with a frown as delicate gilt chairs were placed in strategic groupings where his jars of paints had once stood. 

The slow dismantling of their home for Orlesian tastes was…disconcerting.

Varric, thank the Maker, was still stubbornly holding fort in his usual place, various papers weighted down against the constant draft by bits of drakestone and everite. He looked up as Elayne joined him, expression twisted into wry, exasperated amusement. “Couldn’t you give your favorite dwarf a little warning, Inquisitor?” he teased, twisting to kick a chair back from the table. Elayne sank into it gratefully, glancing over her shoulder as another banner came crashing down with a loud _whoosh_. “I was midway through some correspondence when suddenly the doors were flung open and Vivienne began her coup. Haven’t had a moment’s peace since.”

“I had no idea they’d get started so quickly,” Elayne admitted. She set the manuscript on the table between them, weighting its pages down with a free rock. “…or be quite so extensive. I may have sided with Cullen if I’d known Vivienne and Josephine meant to strip the place clean.”

He waved a hand. “You know Ruffles—when it comes to building a name for the Inquisition, there are no half measures. Cheer up, kid,” he added, offering Elayne a crooked smile. “So the place is getting a new look. Think of it this way: Vivienne will be floating for _weeks_.”

“I’m more worried about what happens _after_ the work is done,” she admitted. “You weren’t there at The Winter Palace—”

“Thanks again for that,” Varric interrupted. “I’m not so much with the dancing.”

“—but it was…and please keep in mind that I have willingly faced down arcane horrors with no complaint…a _nightmare_. The idea of having that _here_ …” Here, in what was supposed to be her haven. Here, in what was supposed to be a safe place.

The literal Haven hadn’t been safe, in the end. Neither had the Circle. Elayne only had vague memories of what it felt like to be somewhere that felt like _home_ , like a sanctuary. Sense memories of the smell of lavender and her mother’s voice and Father’s big laugh filling the fine halls.

But then, they’d hadn’t hesitated to hand her over when the dreams came, so perhaps _home_ hadn’t been all that safe either.

She looked up with a soft sigh and startled when she realized Varric was watching her. His expression was still in that little wry smirk, but she could see the empathy in his warm eyes. “Here, kid,” he said, setting down his quill and beginning to riffle through his papers. “Tell you what. I’ve been using the loft in the outbuilding behind the tavern—the one the lady Seeker always stalks about when she’s not knocking practice dummies on their asses—as a kind of study. It’s warm thanks to the hearth fire, it’s relatively clean and comfortable, and best yet, not many are going to bother you there. Sometimes I even bunk down when the muses are good to me, so there’s a bed if you’re really set on avoiding the world. Go ahead and use it until this whole mess is over.”

“But aren’t you going to need it?” Elayne protested. “I don’t want to invade your space.”

He lifted one of the stacks of letters and produced a key. With a graceful flourish of roguish fingers, Varric handed it over. “ _I_ plan on using this break from our usual business of hunting demon Templars and knitting together holes in the sky to see to some old business. I’m just getting out a few last letters to let some of my friends know I might be swinging their way.”

“You’re running away while you still can,” Elayne pointed out, fingers curling around the key. It felt good against her palm—solid.

“Damn right I am. I’d take you with me if I didn’t think they’d send a legion after us.” He tipped his chin, squinting up at her. “I might take the risk anyway. You been getting much rest lately?”

With the expectations of an entire _world_ resting on her shoulders? Not likely. Leliana had been jesting, but there had been some truth to her words too—six hours of uninterrupted sleep _was_ a rare treat these days. She felt guilty for even considering it. “I’m fine,” Elayne promised, gripping the key even tighter. The iron bit into the soft give of her palm. Even if she didn’t take advantage of the hiding place, it was nice to know there was somewhere she could go to ground if she made a mess of things. “Thank you, Varric. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the thought—I would love to be kidnapped by you—but you’re right. I need to be here.” She stood reluctantly. “Say hello to Hawke for me, please.”

The dwarf leaned back in his chair with a crooked smile. “Hawke? I don’t know where Hawke is,” he said. “I certainly wouldn’t know how to get in contact with her easily enough to arrange a meeting on such short notice.” He winked.

Elayne grinned back. “Right,” she said. “Of course. Well in that case, please do _not_ convey my greetings, and have safe travels. Come back to us soon,” she added, embarrassed at the hint of a plea that crept into her voice. She loved all of her strange menagerie of friends, but there was something about Varric that made him so very, very necessary. Something in the way he treated her, in the way he looked at her.

Like she was the Inquisitor, but she was a real person, too. Like he’d be only too happy to ruffle her hair and take her under his wing. It was soothing in a way very few things were anymore. If she were more selfish, she might have even begged him to stay to see Josephine’s ball through by her side. It would be nice to have something to keep her anchored as she swam with the finely dressed sharks.

“Nah,” Varric said, lifting his quill again and twirling it between his fingers. “You aren’t getting rid of me that easily, Inquisitor. Now, I’d better finish these letters and get out of here before I find myself pressed into service.”

“Maker protect you from _that_.” She gave an awkward little wave—one she’d be deeply embarrassed by if it had been anyone _but_ Varric—and turned on her heel to hurry out of the hall. She’d go to the tavern, Elayne decided. Surely they had left the tavern alone. Or perhaps she could go coax Blackwall into joining her by the firepit just beyond the stables and tell one of his stories. Yes _that_ , she decided, was exactly what she needed.

But a voice called down to her before she could make it through the main doors. “My dear. My dear Inquisitor, do come join us when you have a moment. A third opinion is _exactly_ what we need to break this deadlock, don’t you think, Lady Montilyet?”

Elayne winced and briefly considered pretending she hadn’t heard the summons…but no. No, there was no use in running. She was the Inquisitor and it was her duty to see the cause of the Inquisition spread, even if that meant the mundane task of picking out cutlery and organizing complicated dining service instead of facing off against darkspawn-slash-magisters.

Besides. She was _positive_ Vivienne would know she was being ignored, and Elayne was many things, but even she wasn’t that recklessly brave.

She turned back with a sigh, meeting Varric’s eyes over the chaos of the hall. Elayne offered a shrug, then slid the key into the pocket of her tunic, gently capitulating.

“Should have been faster, Inquisitor,” Varric teased, watching as she walked past.

Elayne shot him a crooked grin. “Maybe if I am _very_ inept at planning a fine Orlesian ball,” she said, “they will turn me loose in utter horror.”

“One can only hope, Inquisitor. One can only hope.”


	3. Chapter 3

Asked to lead a charge or close a rift or choose long-term alliances that would shape the direction of the entire Inquisition, Elayne felt reasonably confident in her abilities. She trusted her gut, and so far, her gut hadn’t lead them all that wrong. Solas even made a point of complimenting her wisdom, and coming from a man who spent so much time conversing with literal spirits of wisdom? That was saying something.

But the moment she was asked to choose between red-flocked linens or blue, apparently she was a hopeless case—a child fumbling about the skirts of her elders.

“Yes, well, I suppose that _could_ be an option,” Vivienne murmured, not-so-discretely tucking away Elayne’s choice and substituting it for her own. “But we ought to think on a grander scale, my dear, if we really want to impress our importance upon the court.”

 _Then just make all the decisions for me_ , she didn’t, wouldn’t snap. _We both know that’s what you’re going to do anyway._

“Of course, Lady Vivienne,” she said instead, folding her hands onto her lap. It wasn’t that she disliked Vivienne. On the contrary, there was a great deal to admire in the other woman’s remarkable resolve and unshakable sense of self. But it always felt like each conversation was an unspoken battle of wills, and Vivienne’s will was cold steel. Elayne stumbled away from each duel feeling raw and more than a little dazed. “I defer to your judgment.”

“Marvelous.” The other woman smiled, setting aside the book of samples. Down below, construction continued apace, the Marcher statues Elayne had become so fond of coming down piece by piece. Each crack of chisel to stone, each rumble of smaller rocks tumbling down to scatter across the flagstones lanced through her like a physical blow. She was struggling not to take it personally, but it was _so hard_ not to hear the criticism in each change Vivienne and Josephine made.

 _It’s for the good of the Inquisition_ , she reminded herself, setting her jaw and refusing to let herself wince at the next resounding blow. _It’ll be worth it in the end._

Vivienne settled back, brows faintly arched, as if she could read a measure of Elayne’s inner struggle. “There,” she said, “that wasn’t so very bad, was it? We are done for the evening.”

It took every ounce of her own will to keep from bounding to her feet. “So soon?” Elayne said, forcing herself to smile. She _did_ care for this woman. She did, _she did_. It was just very difficult remembering that when her head throbbed and her muscles ached from holding _still_ for so long. “The evening flew by.”

“And well into the night, it seems,” Vivienne agreed with a laugh. “With so much to do, I suppose that’s to be expected. But you are free now to find your sleep while you can, Inquisitor. By the way,” she added as Elayne hurried to her feet, eager to finally, _finally_ rest, “I took the liberty of having your finery…excavated…and cleaned. It will be left hanging in your room for you once it is ready.”

Elayne barely hid a wince. “That was very thoughtful of you, Lady Vivienne,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

“It was no trouble, dear. We want you looking your best for the court. With that in mind, I also selected an appropriate mask and asked a dear friend from the capitol to join us early. He is a genius in his chosen art.” Vivienne reached out and brushed back an unruly blond corkscrew, expression melting into something very much like fondness as she tucked it behind Elayne’s ear. “If anyone can tame your hair into a suitable coiffure, he can. You really should take more of a care.”

This time the criticism wasn’t even hidden, but at least it was kindly given. Elayne smiled more naturally in response. “You think of everything,” she said.

“The ball will be splendid, my dear,” Vivienne assured her, turning back to the various lists and requisitions. It seemed she, at least, was willing to work through the night. “You shall see. And if you do manage to misstep, well…that is the secret beauty of a masque, is it not?” She leaned in, brows arched in bemusement. “With our identities so hidden, no one can prove it was _you_.”

 _It won’t be me_ , Elayne thought, forcing a light laugh because it was clear that was what Vivienne wanted. _The only time I was allowed to be myself in The Winter Palace was when I made those three schemers work together._

But she was being childish. Vivienne meant well. They all did.

“Of course, Lady Vivienne,” Elayne said, folding away the riot of emotion—the feeling of being overlooked, overruled, being judged and found wanting—firmly. A young girl in the Circle could maybe afford to have her feelings hurt by the implicit rebuke in their meddling; the Inquisitor could not. “Sleep well.”

“You as well, my dear.” Vivienne’s attention was already drawn back to the book of Orlesian fabric samples, however; Elayne was dismissed.

Refusing to let herself sigh, Elayne turned and trudged through the dismantling of _her_ hall back to her private quarters…still blissfully and defiantly Marcher _and_ Mage-influenced no matter what the whole of bloody Orlais might think of her for it.

In this, at least, they could all go rot.


	4. Chapter 4

“ _Ugh_ ,” Sera said, spinning about on the low stool. “Trapped in a mask between Madame Manners and Miss Spit-n-Polish? Almost rather fight Corrify-fit.” She slowed, one foot dragging against the flagstones. “Hold up. Fewer demons in ruffles. Never mind, here’s what: you take Corrifa-spit and I’ll nob the nobles.”

Elayne folded her legs under her with a sigh. She was sitting on her (big, wonderful, embarrassingly extravagant) bed dragging a brush through her long hair. She didn’t much like letting any of her companions see her with her hair literally (or figuratively) down. Josephine had been right, early on, when she’d said Elayne had to work hard to maintain a veneer of _otherness_. The Herald of Andraste, the Chosen of the Maker, the Inquisitor…they were titles she put on and took off again when she was alone, like the carefully fitted armor and the too-fine cowls she wore into battle.

But Sera had been different from the first, and something about being with the other girl made Elayne feel comfortable enough to strip away all her layers until she was just a scared kid from the Marcher Circle again, fighting to pretend she knew what in the void she was doing.

Thus…hair down, literally _and_ figuratively as she blew a snaking curl out of her face. “You’re going to leave me to the mercies of the Orlesian court _again_?” she protested. The bristles caught midway through a thick bramble. “Heinous bitch.”

“The biggest n’ baddest,” Sera said proudly. She leaned back, kicking up her feet to rest them on the fine coverlet—and nearly tipping over her stool in the process. “Though tell you what: you lick out of there quick as you can and I’ll top you off in the bar. We’ll sit at the window and watch them tart up and down the steps like… Oooh, something sweet! For the bees, with all their buzzing.”

Steps, something sweet, bees…honey. Elayne followed the threads of logic like she was working spellcraft; it was amazing she was able to stitch it all together as fast as she did now. She laughed, throwing the brush at Sera playfully. “We are _not_ smearing the front steps with honey—not _even_ so you can watch our guests land on their arses as they try to unstick themselves.”

Though, she had to admit, the image had its own sort of charm.

“Honestly, it wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t have to go as, well, _myself_ ,” Elayne added. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder where her stiff red velvet coat and sash were waiting. A ridiculous Orlesian plaster mask was hanging alongside it, red-painted lips pursed into a perpetual mew. “No matter what Vivienne claims, I know they’ll be able to recognize me. But if I could be sure no one would be able to figure out who I was and topple the Inquisition in the rumor mill or what-have-you, it could be fun to let loose. Step on a few trains and start some blood feuds. Maybe seduce a likely-looking lordling and be the subject of some devastating poem circulated through the gossips all next season—isn’t that how these sorts of things go when there aren’t any consequences?”

She’d been joking—of course she’d been joking; there was no such thing as _no consequences_ for her—but at her words, Sera’s lips parted and her head tilted to the side as if she were deep in thought.

And that? Was rarely good.

“Sera,” Elayne said slowly, a warning note in her voice. “Out with it, please, before I start to wonder if facing Corypheus isn’t a safer bet.”

“Well, now, I was just thinking on this: why _can’t_ you be just plain folk? You’re regular people here. With a mask, no one’s to say you can’t be regular people there, too.” She scrunched up her face. “Even surrounded by all them not-so… Look, hoist up your tits and cover your face and no one’s to know you from spit, aye?”

 _Hoist up my_ — “You mean, go to Josephine’s ball pretending I’m someone else? There’s no way I could get away with it.”

Sera pointed at her with a crooked grin. “You’re the Inquisitor. You can get away with just ‘bout anything. ‘Sides, I want to read some of that sex poem. You’re gonna make sure you get that sex poem, yeah?”

“I…Sera, I was _joking_.”

“I’m not. I’m serious as Lord Templar Fancybriches.” Her friend bounded up, shaggy hair swaying, and went to grab the coat and mask off the wall. “You just work on strapping your tits and I’ll take care of the hard stuff. Ha,” she added on a snorting laugh, “hard stuff. Fitting, right? Considering you’re off to seduce some lord muckity muck and air out your dusty ladybits.”

Elayne rose up onto her knees, watching Sera move through the room collecting bits of ribbon and undergarments and… _whathaveyou_ …with mounting alarm. “Sera!” she protested. “I’m not going to seduce anyone!”

Sera cast her a look, arms full. “Not with that attitude you ain’t. Now sit tight and work on your angle. I’ve got you handled. Not right that you’re expected to stay up there all high and good, like the shine won’t come scrubbing off. I get why you’ve got to and all, but it’s good to remember you’ve got parts, see, like the rest of us. Parts up above,” she flung out one long limb to gesture to Elayne’s heart, “and parts down below.” And…lower.

Elayne fought the ridiculous urge to pull the covers over her head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. For once, I don’t _want_ to know what you’re talking about.”

“Aw,” Sera said, crooked smile almost, strangely, sad. “You’re no fun when you lie. Be back then, aye?” And then she was bounding away, leaping lithely over the stone railing to go tumbling down the stairs, trailing Elayne’s neatly pressed formalwear and undergarments and leaving Elayne sitting utterly bemused on her too-big, far-too-fine bed.

“Well,” she said, collapsing back against a sea of pillows. Sometimes talking to Sera felt like boxing the wind. “That was bracing.”

But…not entirely unpleasant to consider. She _had_ to admit that Sera had been right about that. It was so hard, sometimes, being the Herald. Elayne wasn’t sure whether she had been chosen by the Maker or not, but so many people _believed_ that she was that she felt an obligation to try to act like it. They lived in a dark time, and in dark times, the common folk needed something to believe in.

Somehow, against all the odds, she had become the center of faith in Thedas without taking a breath to wonder whether she had the will to become a symbol rather than a woman.

Elayne flung an arm over her eyes and curled her knees up, winding around herself like a dragonling. Who was she kidding, anyway? She’d gone from life as a Marcher noble to a Circle mage to a _Herald_ with barely a pause in between. If it weren’t for friends like Sera and Blackwall and the Bull and Varric, she wouldn’t know what it _meant_ to be a real person, much less a woman.

…certainly not a woman in the symbolic sense. No matter what the Bull’s dancing eyebrows would suggest.

“No, bad idea,” Elayne muttered, curling tighter. She couldn’t believe she was letting herself trip along with Sera’s erratic logic; she couldn’t believe she was _considering_ this madness…no matter how intriguing the idea of not being herself for a time might be.

“No, no, stop, bad idea, bound to end terribly.” She rolled over onto her back, staring up at the canopy. Designs had been picked out in colorful embroidery on the fine cloth: dragons and woodlands and unicorns rampart. The last was especially apt—and especially annoying. She wouldn’t put it past the Maker, if he did exist, to have added those as a personal dig.

It would show them all if she did drop the careful mask and donned a new one for this ball. A new identity, a new personality, a new self free of, oh, _everything_ for just a few hours. It would be, she had to admit, a remarkable chance to actually live before she was shuffled off into her inevitable martyrdom.

…not that she was seriously considering going through with it.


	5. Chapter 5

Sometime in the week leading up to Vivienne and Josephine’s Grand Orlesian Ball (always in all caps in her mind now thanks to the near-constant buzz of activity swarming through Skyhold) more of her friends followed Varric’s example and fled for parts unknown.

“I will visit you when I dream,” Solas had promised before hiking off alone across the spine of the Frostbacks.

“Hell, boss, I’ll just step on toes if I stick around,” Bull had pointed out as he adjusted his massive sword. “Toes and those fancy little hats, too.” He took the Chargers with him, laughing raucously as the piled into a wagon train headed for the city.

“I cannot _abide_ ,” Cassandra snapped one morning over their traditional shared breakfast. She was gone by evening.

“If you want me to stay, my lady,” Blackwall murmured even as he gathered his meager possessions, “I will stay. But we both know I’ll just be collecting dust in some corner.”

“Go,” Elayne said to each of them in turn, smiling because that was what was they needed from her. “Please go and enjoy your break from Skyhold. You’ll come back though, won’t you?”

The last she could never seem to swallow, ripples of anxiety, of impending loneliness making the words trip off her tongue before she could safely swallow them back.

“I will,” Blackwall vowed—Cassandra, Bull, Solas. “Once this nonsense is over and you’ve run the damned interlopers off our land, I will.”

So in the end, even the loyal Warden became little more than a smudge of grey on the horizon; despite the scores of workers pouring in daily, Skyhold never felt so empty.

“She doesn’t like the echoes in her heart,” Cole said one evening, looking up from the scarred floorboards. They were sitting side by side in his little corner of the tavern, watching through the cracks as workers put the finishing touches on the bar below. Not even this haven had been safe from the overwhelming spirit of improvement. Now the tavern was polished and bright and elegant as any noblewoman’s salon. “She was lonely in the Circle, passing days in silence because there was no one who cared to hear her voice. We care now…but we are all leaving her.”

Elayne closed her eyes with a soft sigh, tipping against Cole’s bony shoulder. The sharp jut of him (all angles and very little flesh) was uncomfortable yet oddly comforting at the same time. “You’re still here, Cole,” Elayne murmured. “And Dorian. And Vivienne. And—”

He reached up to touch her hair, fingers ghosting over the tight bun. “And him. He doesn’t see you until it’s dark, but he prefers it light. He didn’t even know he was allowed to have preferences until they were there, and now he can’t look away. He used to be stronger than this, he thinks, but she is bewitching. He is bewitched.”

She stilled, wondering if she should ask—but no. Whatever that had been, it had been _private_ , and she had no right to coax open the minds of her friends with Cole’s help. “Thank you for being here tonight,” Elayne said instead, squeezing his shoulder as she straightened. “I appreciate it.”

“I hope I helped,” Cole said, fixing her with an almost-shy stare.

“You did,” she said. Even if he hadn’t, this was always a lie she was comfortable telling. Elayne rose and dusted herself off. She glanced at the far door, briefly considering traversing the walkway to go visit Cullen in his office—but no. He’d been making himself as scarce as possible over the last week, and even though misery loved company, she didn’t want to intrude on his preferred solitude merely because she was missing her friends.

Not even _Sera_ had been heard from since she’d gone racing from Elayne’s room with a mask, her knickers, and a promise.

Elayne took the long way back to the Great Hall, snaking around the last hives of activity on her way. Guests would be arriving within the next day she knew, with the first night of the three-night ball (“We couldn’t very well break tradition and only host them for _one_ , my dear”) to be held in two days’ time. Everyone was in a frenzy to finish before then.

She’d have to remember to ask Josephine for a new set of formalwear if Sera didn’t return in time, Elayne reminded herself, trudging up the steps to the hall—now bracketed by delicate golden filigree railings, no doubt to protect Orlesian noblemen from taking a tumble at the first strong gust off the Frostback’s mighty peaks. The doors were thrown open, also gleaming gold in the torchlight, and Elayne stepped into her hall with a feeling of an interloper come to gawk at all the grandness so far above her own preferred simplicity.

The floors were gleaming onyx. The banners were the deepest red, Chantry suns picked out in gold. Bone white statues of Blessed Andraste flanked the tapestry-covered walls, lit braziers hanging from each uplifted hand. Expensive rugs cordoned off different areas of the hall and attached rooms—this one for dining, this for conversation, and so on. Even the stained glass had been changed, images no longer the nature scenes she’d selected so long ago, but now…

Now they were of _her_.

Elayne stopped midway down the hall, staring up at the windows with a sick shift deep in her belly. There she was, coming from the rift, a woman’s shadow behind her. There she was, closing the tear in the sky. Facing Corypheus at Haven. Being named Inquisitor on the steps of Skyhold. Facing the fear demon with the wardens at Adamant.

Only this image picked out of gleaming glass was nothing like reality. She was shining silver and gold, _holy_ , standing fierce and triumphant and utterly without fear. The bald-faced lie of that made Elayne deeply uncomfortable, unhappy. How could she ever hope to live up to the woman those stories made her out to be? She was a creature of flesh and blood, triumphs and mistakes, losses and longings. How could she ever be the chosen one the people expected?

Needed.

Drawing in a stuttery breath, Elayne turned from the grim promise in those windows—the future as savior rather than woman—and stepped through the door to her private chambers. She trudged up the steps, feet dragging, heart like a stone in her chest. Maker, if that was how the people were hell-bent on seeing her, what would be expected from her over the next few days? How would she ever live up to the image of the Inquisitor? How—

Elayne stumbled to a stop as she turned the corner at the crest of the stairs, coming face to face with Josephine and…herself?

“ _Maker’s balls_ ,” she gasped, and only a finely entrenched sense of self-preservation kept her from taking a startled step back and toppling down the stairwell. The woman next to Josephine was her match in every way. The red velvet finery hugged generous—the unkind would perhaps say too generous—curves, clinging to full hips and breasts. She stood favoring one leg the way Elayne often did, causing her right hip to cock. The white Orlesian mask suggested the heart-shaped face beneath, full cheeks narrowing into a delicately pointed chin, and fine blond curls brushed the upper lip of the mask, the main mass of heavy gold pulled into a high bun. Pins kept the errant corkscrews in place—she remembered those well from her time at the Winter Palace. Maker, even this woman’s _aura_ was just like her own. It was like looking into a mirror into some alternate world.

“Um,” Elayne said, dragging her eyes away from the woman to Josephine’s grinning face. “ _What_ is…”

“See?” Leliana said, dropping a hand lightly on her still-cocked hip. “I _told_ you I had the measurements for the padding right.”

Elayne did a double-take, staring. There was _no way_ lithe, graceful Leliana was this mirror image before her—and yet she was removing her full-face mask and it _was_ Leliana, blond wisps of hair now brushing her bare forehead.

Josephine waved her off. “Yes, yes, I bow to your superior eye for detail. Inquisitor,” she added, gesturing for Elayne to follow her to a small seating area. “This must seem very strange to you.”

“A little, yes,” she managed. She couldn’t take her eyes off Leliana. The spymaster was moving like her, fuller hips swaying, each step small and neat. There was a tightly controlled sense of wildness about her, though, as if she was reining in the impulse to take a running leap.

Really. The imitation was almost _too_ exact.

Elayne sank into a chair, watching as Josephine and Leliana did the same. Leliana even _sat_ like her, one leg curling up behind the other. “I—What?”

The two women exchanged a look. “We intercepted Sera,” Leliana began.

“ _You_ intercepted Sera,” Josephine corrected. “I, alas, have been too preoccupied preparing for this ball to notice what was happening right under my nose. Inquisitor,” she added, brows knitting; her tone dropped, sorrow lacing her words, “I want to apologize. I was so carried away with proving to Orlais that we were able to play the Game on its terms that I never stopped to consider the very real human lives at the center of this Inquisition. I allowed you to be sidelined, your own home to be changed to suit some image that has nothing to do with what you and our Inquisition as a whole represents—”

Elayne reached out to impulsively clasp Josephine’s hand, squeezing her fingers. “Josie, no, please,” she said. “It’s all right. You did nothing wrong.”

“But I should have considered how it might feel,” Josephine protested, squeezing back. “To have everything you had a hand in, changed. To have your very image twisted to suit _our_ goals.”

“That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?” she said, trying to make her words light. “To be the symbol the Inquisition needs me to be?”

Leliana laced her fingers together, resting her elbows on her knees as she leaned forward. That, at least, was pure Leliana with no touch of Elayne about her movements. “Perhaps, at times,” she said, “but we must also remember that you are a woman, too. And we have given you far too few opportunities to feel like you have the freedom to _be_ a woman, without the pressures of all of Thedas on your shoulders.”

Elayne slowly straightened, letting her grip on Josephine lighten. “Is that why…this?” she asked slowly. “Do _you_ plan to be _me_?”

“We intercepted Sera,” Leliana said again. “She was…all too eager to tell my contacts off, knowing they would report to me. Once I learned of your desire to be someone else for an evening, I approached Josie, and we worked out our plan.”

“It is true that the Inquisitor must appear at the ball,” Josephine added. “That cannot be avoided. But Leliana is uncannily talented at mimicry. That, and she understands the politics of the Inquisition and can play the Game beautifully. Perhaps…and forgive me for saying this…better than _you_ , Inquisitor.”

That startled a laugh out of Elayne. “Oh, of that I have no doubt.”

“So I will attend all three nights as you,” Leliana said, leaning back again, “and you will be a most honored guest from Starkhaven. I have it on good authority you are handy with the accent.”

Elayne shook her head. “You honestly do know everything, don’t you?” she mused. She’d adopted the accent once, deep into her cups after killing their first dragon. The brogue had made Bull howl with laughter as she told stories of the holy Starkhaven prince and all the bawdy things she and her fellow mages had used to pretend he got up to. The Randy Saint in his fine white armor with the face of the blessed Andraste hovering suggestively right above his princely…package. “I don’t know how you manage.”

“I am a very good spymaster,” Leliana said with a half-smile.

“And I am very good at what _I_ do,” Josephine added. “As you will see in a moment. But first: for your hair,” she said, reaching into the folds of her dress and pulling out a small ceramic jar. “It will darken you to nearly black but will come clean with a spindleweed rinse. There is enough here for all three days.”

Leliana suddenly bounded to her feet. “This is, I admit, my favorite part,” she said, going to Elayne’s closet. Josephine tipped her head at Elayne and Elayne offered a tremulous smile in return. It all didn’t seem _real_.

“Thank you,” she said quietly as Leliana tossed a series of three beautifully wrought Orlesian half-masks onto the bed. “Truly. To be able to just _be_ there, to talk to people without having to be the Inquisitor…it means a great deal to me.”

Josephine’s return smile was almost sad. “We should have thought of this long ago,” she murmured. Then, standing, she added, “At the very least, we should have thought to see you in such _dresses_ a long time ago. I called in favors from Antiva, Orlais…Rivain. Three dresses for three different nights. The Lady of Starkhaven will be a _wonder_.”

Fancy dresses and pretty shoes and jewels in her hair. Fans and flirtations and perhaps an indiscretion far away from the watching eyes of the world. She shouldn’t want such things, but…

Oh Maker, did she ever. She felt like a hawk being loosed from its tether for the first time in its life. She felt…

“Hoist up your tits and cover your face and no one’s to know you from spit, aye?” she said, drifting over to join Josephine and Leliana as they began revealing her three perfect ballgowns. Both women paused to shoot her a quizzical look. “Never mind,” Elayne said, too eager to get started to explain. “I think you had to be there.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art in Chapter Six by the incredible Feylen. Visit her tumblr to tell her how amazing she is! http://feylen.tumblr.com/

On the first night of the ball, all of Skyhold was shining. It seemed like another world—mysterious and beautiful and untouchable in a way even The Winter Palace could not match. The age of the stones, the wide sweep of the mountains visible outside each thrown-open door, the arching ceilings and glittering lights and music drifting from everywhere and nowhere at once…

It was so beautiful, it made her heart hurt to see. Even she had to admit the changes had been worth it, if it meant _this_.

When Elayne finally joined the party, it was snowing outside in a light, silvery dusting that swept across the parapets and turned the world an incandescent white. Women laughed and brushed flakes from their elaborate hair as they moved into the main hall, belled skirts swaying. They looked, Elayne thought as she moved amongst them, like a swarm of butterflies—blues and greens and reds and golds flitting together in swathes of silk. Amongst the beautiful, gossiping crowd, she moved on soft-soled slippers, at once a part of them and aloof: a keen-eyed bird of prey.

Tonight, she was the lady in black.

The Antivan dress was made of the finest velvet, cut and fitted and embroidered with dark, dark green thread and jagged bits of beveled glass. The effect made the bodice a sort of mirrored mosaic, pieces fitting together in a delicate complexity that tricked the eye and kept it moving up the plunging v-neckline to the stiff collar threaded through with a cape of black feathers. They swayed as she moved, frivolous and soft against her skin, so very dark against the glittering jewels at her throat. They made her feel _daring_.

The waist of the dress cinched in tight, following the exaggerated hourglass of her figure…thanks in no small part to the dragonbone corset Josephine had forced her into. It was an impossibly extravagant waste of materials—materials that _could_ have gone to craft armor, weapons—but as Elayne subtly dragged one black-gloved hand down her side, she had to admit that the effect was…pleasing. With the heavy volume of the skirt billowing from a series of intricate bustles and the dark embroidery forming flourishes and pick-ups, she felt…delicate in a way she never had before. Certainly not since she’d become the untouchable face of the Inquisition.

Delicate but _powerful_ , a black lace mask covering all but red lips and chin, a cascade of shockingly loose black curls falling down her bared shoulders to brush the pale curve of her breasts, her waist. Glittering jewels were caught in the mass and framing the edges of her mask like many-faceted eyes. If she were Leliana, dressed like this, bold and self-assured and unselfconsciously sexual, she would make a _killing_.

…but she wasn’t Leliana, and a daring dress did not make _her_ particularly daring, at least when it came to this. Men and women paused to watch her pass, and whispers rose in her wake like a trail of dust, but she couldn’t seem to bring herself to meet anyone’s eyes for longer than a moment. As time ticked by, she couldn’t seem to trick herself into believing she truly was someone else tonight.

It didn’t take long before Elayne realized that she may have made a grave error in judgment.

“You’ve faced an archdemon,” she whispered beneath her breath, pausing in the shadows just beyond the main hearth. She could feel eyes on her like a caress, and it all should have been so very exciting—but instead she felt exposed, awkward, _alone_. She didn’t know anyone and no one knew her and she had no idea how to _change_ that except to just stand there and hope someone else was more daring than she was.

Maybe if she had some wine?

No, Maker, a clear head was better.

…wasn’t it?

Elayne snapped open the black and silver-tooled fan and tried to cool her cheeks as she scanned the packed room. The party was spilling out into the solar, the library, the undercroft…even into Josephine’s office and the war room and out across the lawn. The only space that had been declared off limits was her own bedroom, and she felt a sudden powerful desire to make her escape now before she either embarrassed herself or spent an excruciating evening decorating the wall, silent and miserable in her fine, fine clothing. Couples were dancing, skirts opening like colorful flowers with each sweep, and she wanted nothing more than to join them _if only_ —

_If only._

And then by chance her eyes caught a well-dressed figure, familiar despite (because of?) the laughably small gold mask perched on his aristocratic nose, and Elayne relaxed into a smile. _Friends_. What she needed right now was her _friends_.

She closed the fan with a snap and moved past a gentleman who had been determinedly making his way to her corner. He turned as she passed, watching her go with parted lips, but Elayne was too focused on Dorian to pay him any mind. Dark feathers jerked with each swaying step—but midway across the hall, she remembered she was supposed to be _someone else_ , and she shifted to an easy glide with only a small hitch in her stride.

Dorian looked up as she came closer, dark brow arching, full lips curving beneath his fine mustache. He was dashing in red-and-gold and—

Elayne stopped, flustered. And he had a hand on a tall man’s forearm, keeping the gentleman close. Oh. _Oh._ No, of course, _of course_ Dorian would have better things to do with his own anonymity than take her under his wing tonight; how could she be so stupid? She hesitated, more than halfway across the floor, uncertain what to _do._

Dorian just quirked that brow and leaned up to murmur something to his friend. The man glanced at her, silver mask flashing beneath the glittering lights. He was broad-shouldered and handsome—even if she couldn’t see his face, she _knew_ he was that—dressed in a dark blue coat that reminded her of the night sky above Haven and fitted leathers that followed the muscled line of his legs. His _thighs_. The heavy, almost armored, boots gave him a strangely military feel, as did the bits of silver mail sewn into his fitted sleeves. When he dipped his head to answer Dorian, the light caught him and he _shone_. His eyes never left her. She could feel their touch.

Maker take her, her heart actually _fluttered._

Dorian laughed and pushed at him playfully, then gestured to Elayne with his free hand. The tall gentleman was already moving off with one last, long look at her, striding powerfully across the gleaming floor; courtiers scattered like squawking birds in his wake.

Elayne watched him go even as she crossed the last bit of space to join her friend, feeling more than a little dazzled—let it never be said Dorian didn’t have a good eye for beautiful men. “Serah?” she murmured, adopting the Starkhaven brogue naturally. “I believe you wanted my attention?”

“I think we can safely say I _always_ want your attention,” Dorian said dryly. “Of course, seeing as I always want _everyone’s_ attention, I suppose that isn’t saying much. I love the accent,” he added, pulling back to give her a once-over. “I must say, Josephine and Leliana did a bang-up job. I wouldn’t have recognized you if I didn’t know what to look for.”

She relaxed, only a little disappointed at being discovered so easily. “I hadn’t realized they’d told anyone,” she admitted, slipping back into her normal voice.

Dorian waved her off. “No, no, keep the accent—it’s charming. Besides, _I_ may have been told the game ahead of time so I could keep an eye on you, but that doesn’t mean any eager ears listening in know who the mysterious dark lady is. Come, dance: we’ll be devastating together.”

He slid a hand around her waist, pulling her close before Elayne could manage a protest. “But what about your friend?” she asked, tripping over the first three steps before she caught the rhythm and fell into an easy glide. Dorian’s grip on her waist was firm, his other hand grasping hers in a touch that was barely a kiss of palms. She could feel his warmth this close, and smell his spicy cologne. The heavy black folds of her dress swayed around them, and she caught eyes watching them as she followed her friend through the steps, effortless, light, beautiful.

She felt so _beautiful._

His smile went soft, eyes scanning her masked features as if he could read her thoughts. “An acquaintance of the evening,” he said, “and nothing more. I found him loitering awkwardly in the hall and snapped him up before one of the dowagers could get her teeth into him. I sent him to fetch drinks for the two of you.”

“The two of _us_?”

Dorian’s grip on her hand tightened and he spun her out in a sudden dizzying turn; when she lifted her chin, dark curls and black velvet caught in the graceful arc, lights from the chandelier dazzling her. She was weightless, she was flying.

He caught her against his body again as he twirled her back to him. “The two of _you_ ,” he confirmed, sweeping her back into the steps. His grin was wide and shameless. “You see, Leliana and Josephine can dress you—and dress you very well, I must say—but it takes a real friend to sort through the Orlesian pigs mucking up our home to find someone truly worth a lady such as _your_ time. The basics, while I have you trapped: he won’t give a name; he comes from Kirkwall; he’s minor nobility at best; and he feels just awkward enough being here that he barely put up a fight when I offered to introduce him to a dear friend of mine. Which would be you, if you’re keeping up.”

“I’m trying,” she murmured dryly.

“Of course,” Dorian added, grip on her waist tightening again as he led them through a series of difficult turns, “he went from merely accommodating to endearingly _eager_ the moment I pointed you out. You must know you look breathtaking…and a little dangerous, if I do say so. If you could only see how many eyes are on you now; you _shine_.” He leaned in closer, breath tickling her bare neck. “He’s back with the drinks, and he couldn’t look away to save his life. I’d say he’s already well on his way to _dazzled_.”

Elayne’s nails dug into his shoulder. “I don’t know if I can do this,” she admitted in a low hiss. “I’ve never—”

“Nature,” he interrupted, “is a glorious thing. If you trust in your own—and his, I daresay—it will take you where you want to go. Be as honest as you can without giving yourself away, be alert no matter how many _flutterings_ you may or may not experience, remember that you can take him apart to his itty bitty pieces if he tries to push for anything you do not want, and know that you are the most beautiful woman here, tonight or any other.”

The music came to a flourishing end. Dorian spun her out one final time, grip on her hand tightening in friendly reassurance. Then he bent forward as she tried to catch her breath and brushed his lips over her knuckles. His eyes were warm, _kind_. “No one deserves happiness more than you,” he murmured before straightening and turning to face the tall stranger in blue. Dorian gave a half bow to him as well before melting away into the crowd, leaving Elayne alone.

She fought the impulse to bring her gloved hands to her cheeks, knowing she was flushed. She hesitated as the stranger focused the incredible weight of his attention on her, aware of her heart pounding high in her throat, of the shimmer of ice wanting to break free from her fingertips. She was nervous, and excited, and _frightened_ and hopeful as she took a hesitant step forward—just as the stranger took his own hesitant step.

Dorian thought this man was worth her time. Certainly if she trusted Dorian to watch her back in battle, she could swallow her nerves long enough to accept a drink?

Elayne wet her lips and moved to join him, smiling despite the breathless lightness rising up and up and up inside her chest. “Hello,” she murmured, adopting the Starkhaven brogue again. Then, daring much, “I saw you watching me dance.”

He looked down quickly and cleared his throat; he was holding two crystal goblets filled with sweet rose wine. “Ah, well,” he said. His voice was low and almost familiar—like Varric’s. She supposed that made sense, considering where he was from. “That cannot set me apart, I’m afraid; everyone was watching you dance. You move with such—”

He faltered, then cleared his throat again and handed over one of the glasses.

Elayne took it and shyly let their fingers brush. His eyes jerked up, meeting hers. They were a beautiful golden brown. “I move with such…?” she murmured, scanning his face. The silver mask covered everything but a full bottom lip and strong chin, but she could see dark red-brown hair that almost reminded her of Cullen’s if not for the color. His eyes, however, were nearly the exact same shade as Cullen’s, and if not for his accent, the voice would be a close match. It was strange how near and yet how far this stranger seemed to her advisor…like a burnished mirror, a wickedly tempting doppelganger.

The thought of twining her fingers in dark curls and kissing a mouth she could pretend was _his_ should not have sent a hot thrill through her.

“You know how you move,” he said gruffly. He took a swallow of his drink, looking away; she could see the color creeping up his neck.

“Perhaps,” Elayne murmured, sipping her own wine. “Or perhaps not. But sometimes it’s good to hear it, anyway.”

That seemed to startle him. His gaze shot back to hers, lips parting. His whole body was held with military stiffness—a guard? Varric had said he had friends in the Kirkwall guard. He would be sorry to have left before having a chance to meet him. “Oh, no, of course,” he said. Then, dryly, “I’m sorry—I have never been very good at this. If I knew all the poetry of useless flirtations, I would be able to tell you just how beautiful I find you when you’re dancing, or…not.”

“Useless flirtations?” she teased, flushing. Elayne had to take another deep sip to hide how flustered she was, even with this fumbling flattery. “Are they really so useless?”

“…I feel I may have set a trap for myself there,” he admitted.

She laughed despite herself, reaching out—barely aware she planned to touch him until she was doing it—and placing a hand on his arm. It felt solid. Warm through layers of cloth. “Perhaps,” she said, “flirtation won’t feel so useless if there’s a goal to be achieved. You seem to be the goal-oriented sort.”

His eyes had dropped to her hand, but he was looking at her again. The way he looked at her made her feel queerly hot inside. “And, ah, what goal might you offer me?”

Elayne took a last sip of her wine before setting the glass aside. She touched her tongue to her bottom lip, heat spreading, expanding, at the way his lashes dipped to follow the motion. Her body felt like a clenched fist and she had to remind herself she was _allowed_ to say whatever she wanted, so consequences, before she could force her throat to work.

Her voice, when it came, was husky.

“I offer myself.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art in Chapter Six by the incredible Feylen. Visit her tumblr to tell her how amazing she is! http://feylen.tumblr.com/
> 
> Art in Chapter Seven by the incredible Aud-works. Visit her tumblr to shower praise on her! http://aud-works.tumblr.com

There followed a stretch of time that felt like an _age_ where Elayne worried that she’d been too forward. Should she have held her tongue? Would he think her too brazen…wanton, even? Would he be disgusted with her?

But then he laughed—a low, breathless noise—and the anxiety clawing deep inside her chest loosened its grip. He had such a wonderful laugh. “I…yes,” he said, very deliberately setting aside his nearly untouched glass. He took her gloved hand in one of his, dwarfing her fingers easily; his breath tickled her skin through the black glove as he leaned in and brushed a kiss over the knuckles. The way he watched her, eyes never leaving hers even as he bowed low…

Maker, it sent such a bolt of heat through her. She _squirmed_ against that secret awareness.

“Yes?” she murmured, hating how easily that breathlessness betrayed her. He had to know what kind of an effect he was having.

“A goal such as that would be…most inspiring. I think even I can manage flirtation for a woman like you.” He straightened slowly. The grip of his fingers subtly tightened. “Will you dance with me?”

 _Yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes._ “I don’t know,” Elayne tried to demure, even as her heart threatened to beat its way out of her chest. No man had ever looked at her like this before; it was scrambling her mind, making it hard to remember who she was supposed to be tonight. “Are you as skilled a dancer as my previous partner?”

He laughed again. She was falling hard for that laugh—low and husky, a little rusty, as if he hadn’t had an excuse to use it in a long time. “No,” he said, “I can promise you I’m nowhere close. But if you’re willing to muddle through with me, I would like to, ah, take the excuse to hold you.” He paused, then frowned. “Oh, no, that was dreadful. It sounded much better in my head.”

Elayne burst into laughter, squeezing his fingers back. All at once, she wanted to _kiss_ him—to do more than kiss. “Luckily for you, I prefer unpolished,” she said, giving his hand a little tug. “Come, muddle through with me. I find myself wanting to be held.”

“I…as the lady commands,” he murmured, letting himself be pulled out amongst the dancers. One big ( _Maker_ so broad and capable, hard with callouses but gentle against her) hand slid down her side, fingers brushing along the ribs of the dragonbone corset. His other folded hers close as he stepped forward, leading her into the dance.

This time, there was no stutter of motion as she tried to find his rhythm, as she had with Dorian. It seemed to come naturally with him, her body in tune with his, her steps flowing from each stride he took. She tipped her face up, seeing her own delighted surprise echoed in his face, and that warmed her the way nothing had before. “We appear to be quite good together,” she said.

“So it would seem.” His thumb brushed up along the curve of her waist, following the exaggerated hourglass even as he led her into a series of intricate steps. They flew together, her black skirts swirling about their legs, her dark curls lifting from her back with each turn. Their bodies locked close; she could feel his heat through layers of cloth. “It’s never been easy for me before.”

Elayne brushed her own fingers over the deep blue of his tunic, eyes searching his. She wished she could see more of him past that damn mask. “Dancing?”

“That too.” His hips brushed hers as he moved her back, guiding her with his body. His lips were parted, and she could count the flecks of gold in his eyes if she wanted. They were close enough to almost be indecent, but no one seemed to care—the masks, it seemed, forgave what the Orlesian court otherwise would not.

As the song ended and melted into another, they paused only long enough to pick up the new rhythm. Then again. She was _flying_ , laughing as they glided past the other couples like a needle threading cloth. It was getting harder and harder to forget she was supposed to be someone other than herself as each minute passed—it was getting harder not to just _be_ herself. There was something about this man that made it feel natural to let down her guard and just…enjoy the moment the way she would have before the whole of the world had been placed on her shoulders.

Maker, was she ever enjoying the moment. She was going to owe Leliana and Josephine (and Dorian) until the end of time.

The music changed again, moving into a lively Anderfels reel. Again, they didn’t hesitate, tumbling into the steps with an easy grace that thrilled her to her toes. Her breasts felt tight and aching pressed against his broad chest; her heart was hammering much faster than the pace of their dancing should inspire. “I should tell you my name,” Elayne suddenly blurted, feeling foolish but wanting—hoping—to build on the connection they’d already established. “Just a first, however,” she added, mostly to herself. “It _is_ a masque, after all.”

“And Maker knows being forthright is against everything the Orlesians stand for,” he said dryly, suddenly sounding so much like Ser Cullen that another laugh was startled from her. _Cullen_ had spent the entire time at The Winter Palace muttering beneath his breath like an old man; she’d found it charming in him, and it seemed that trend was holding true with her mysterious partner. “I apologize,” he added. “I know I sound the curmudgeon.”

“So long as you’re still willing to dance and shower me with useless compliments, you can be as curmudgeonly as you want,” Elayne promised. Then, feeling wicked, she added, “You can call me Jenny.”

Sera, she knew, would find that _hilarious_.

His lips quirked. “I can call you Jenny or your name is Jenny?” He dropped his other hand to her waist and gripped her tightly, lifting her into an elaborate turn. The world spun as her feet left the ground, her mysterious stranger holding her aloft as if she weighed nothing at all.

Elayne gasped, grabbing for his biceps as they made a full circle; they flexed, hard and impressively large beneath her fingers before he set her lightly on her feet. This time, she did stumble a step as they flowed back into the dance, too overwhelmed to feel fully centered in her own body. Maker, the strength of him… “Does it matter?” she managed, flustered. She was _wet_ , slick against her underclothes. She wondered what it would feel like to drag him into her bed and let him fully unleash himself.

His eyes went hot, as if he could read her thoughts. “I’m finding it matters a great deal,” he said. Then, before she could answer: “You can call me Marcus.”

“I can call you Marcus or your name is Marcus?” Elayne parroted.

He caught her about the hips one final time, lifting her with breathless ease. When the song ended, she was high above the crowd—hands braced on his shoulders, dark hair tumbling down to brush against the silver of his mask. Slowly (slowly slowly slowly) he lowered her, letting her body drag against his in a long, hard, maddening slide. They were both panting, color high; it was all she could do to keep her hips from moving restlessly against his.

He dipped his head closer, as if he meant to kiss her. The whole of Skyhold may as well not have existed. “Does it matter?” he murmured, just a breath away.

Elayne shuddered, tipping up onto the balls of her feet. Her cheek brushed his as she pressed close to murmur in his ear, “Please take me somewhere private; if I don’t feel your mouth on mine, I feel like I’ll come flying apart.”

His grip tightened spasmodically. She could hear the hint of a growl low in his chest. “As my lady wishes,” Marcus murmured. He slowly pulled back, one hand lingering at the small of her spine. His eyes were like hot coals as he stared down at her, and Elayne couldn’t escape the impression that she was playing with flames. So be it; fire had always been her element anyway. “This way.”

He guided her off the floor with a steady grip; Marcus moved with such focused determination that the colorful partygoers in their path scattered at their approach, parting like water. Elayne glanced up at him, then over her shoulder as they swept out of the Great Hall. She spotted a familiar red-and-gold figure watching from the nearby hearth. Dorian winked broadly before returning to his own conversation, and Elayne had to turn her face against Marcus’s arm to stifle a laugh. Andraste’s tits, what must Dorian be thinking of her now?

Marcus looked down at her, head cocked in bemusement. They passed out of the hall and onto the main steps; the brisk night air was bracing, refreshing after the press of bodies. It blew through her hair and dragged her skirts against her legs, cooling her heated flesh just enough to bring her back to her senses.

What, exactly, was she doing? Was she _really_ going off with a stranger to do…what?

He moved forward a step, then stopped when she hesitated. Marcus turned, two steps below her, and looked at her with a cock of his head. At this angle, they were nearly eye to eye. “My lady?” he said.

“I should tell you,” Elayne blurted; she nervously twisted her fingers together. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

Even through the mask, she could read the shifts in his expression so well. He softened at that, warmed; when he lifted his hand to brush his knuckles along the black lace of her own mask, his touch was so gentle she quaked inside. “I would never do anything you did not wish,” he murmured.

“That’s part of the problem. I wish a great _many_ things, but I don’t know whether my courage is enough to see me through them.”

Marcus slowly (so very slowly, moving so she could shy away if she wanted) dropped his hands to her waist. His thumbs moved across the curve of her hips, rasping against heavy velvet. Elayne drew a deep breath, hyper-aware of the way her breasts pressed against the low neckline of her dress. The pale, rounded tops surged against the embroidered velvet, just shy of being shocking. Her nipples felt tight as jewels, and she wanted his thumbs to drag up the front of her bodice to—

She gasped, and trembled, and _ached_.

His lashes flickered as he studied her, hands spanning her body—moving restlessly across her bodice, along the waist and up the fragile cage of her ribs, but never straying anywhere inappropriate. His breath came just as quickly as hers, and she knew he was as hard as she was slick. He wanted this as badly as she did, but he was holding back—for her. The pleasure in _that_ was almost more than she could bear. “My lady,” he said, his voice low and deliciously husky. “I can’t see how anyone could call you anything but brave. Tonight—”

“I wear a mask,” Elayne interrupted. She wet her lips, then deliberately leaned closer, letting their bodies press tight. When she slipped her arms around his neck, he swallowed audibly. “It’s easy for a coward to be brave when you can’t see his face.”

“The Orlesians like to say that a mask lets us be our true selves,” he said. One hand slid up to brush dark curls back from her face. He traced the delicate shell of her ear as he tucked them back; his touch was stronger than any mage’s spell. “I’ll admit, I always thought they were talking out of their arses—I’ve never much seen the point of hiding.”

“Of course not,” she murmured, impulsively tipping her face toward his hand until he was cupping her cheek. “You’re a man of action; I can tell.”

He smiled wryly and let his thumb drag across her lace-covered cheekbone…then down to brush her mouth. The rasp of callouses against her parted lips made everything go very, very still inside. _Yearning_. “I’m finding there are some actions that aren’t possible to take unless that mask is in place,” he admitted. “I hate to say the Orlesians were right about anything, but if I didn’t have this damn thing on now, I wouldn’t be here, with a most extraordinary woman, hoping against all luck and logic that someone this beautiful may allow me to steal a kiss.”

Elayne sucked in a breath. _This is it_ , she thought dizzily. Standing on the steps of Skyhold, locked together beneath the stars, oh so warm despite the cool wind buffeting her skirts against his legs…against all the odds, against every hope, this was it. Somehow, she’d been allowed to step outside of herself for an evening. Somehow, she’d been allowed to actually be someone else. She’d been set _free._

And her unlikely suitor was waiting for her answer, lips a breath from hers, eyes filled with dazzled heat.

She tipped her face up in welcome—and answered. “Can it truly be called theft if the kiss is freely given?” she murmured, arms tightening around him.

He groaned at that, harsh and very nearly broken, and surged forward to take her mouth in a hungry kiss. It was hot, harder than she expected, the ferocity overpowering before he seemed to rein himself sharply in, hands moving to frame her cheeks, lips going soft. Warm. _Sweet_ , even, brushing over hers again and again as he coaxed her to open for him.

Elayne whimpered and willingly submitted, welcoming the liquid glide of his tongue. She tangled her fingers in his hair, holding on for dear life as he stroked their tongues together deep, deeper, stealing control and her breath and her very senses.

He had such power over her.

 _Power_. Yes, Maker, she could _feel_ the way he was holding himself back in every line of his body. She could feel the coiled tension of his muscles as she arched artlessly forward; the drag of her breasts against the broad expanse of him sent shudders through her body, and Elayne swallowed the noise he made eagerly, wanting— _Everything_. She wanted _everything_.

When he grabbed her bottom and hoisted her close, she went gladly, one thigh catching around his hip. His heat, _hardness_ , through layers of cloth was enough to drive her mad; the spear of his tongue thrusting past her lips, his fingers moving to dig into her mass of hair, his other hand swiping up her body possessively, as if laying claim—laying _siege_ —was almost enough to topple her. When she broke the kiss to gasp in a breath, she felt too big for her skin. She _moaned_ when he pressed a hot line of kisses down her neck, teeth closing over bare skin as one big, rough hand lifted to cup the swell of her aching breast.

The rasp of his thumbnail over the tight clench of her nipple sent coils of heat spiraling through her belly.

“ _Oh_ ,” Elayne breathed, rocking up; she could feel the hard jut of him against her cunt. Every time she moved, he pushed back, restless, wanting. “Oh, oh Maker.”

“You’re _impossible_ ,” Marcus growled, dragging his teeth up to tug at her earlobe. He kissed along her jaw, then licked back into her mouth, tongue stroking achingly deep. His breath came in heavy, uneven pants, and she felt she might come unraveling at the seams. She wanted his mouth on her body. She wanted his hands tangled in her hair, pulling her back into an exaggerated bow as he closed his teeth over her achingly tight nipples.

 _Tonight, anything is possible_ , she thought but didn’t say, kissing back with everything she had. This wasn’t her—it _wasn’t her_ —but tonight it was, tonight she could be whatever she wanted. Tonight she could kiss a beautiful man beneath the cracked-open sky and not even know his real name.

But then, suddenly, from within the Great Hall, a clock began to chime.

Elayne turned her face away with a gasp, looking toward the doors. Inside, people were laughing and crying, “Unmask, unmask!”

_No. Oh, no._

“I have to go,” she said, startled. He kissed the column of her throat, tongue swirling hot against the skin, and her knees very nearly buckled, but Elayne tangled her fingers in dark auburn curls and tugged him back, meeting dazed, _hot_ golden eyes. His lips were swollen, slick. She wanted nothing more than to rip off his mask and kiss him for real.

But what would he say if he knew who she was? What would he think of his mysterious seductress then?

“I have to go,” she said again. His eyes focused as she spoke, his hands sliding down her waist—and gently setting her back a step, untangling them despite his obvious need.

“I apologize,” Marcus said, voice deliciously husky. “If I overstepped. It has been a long— I have _never_ met a woman as—” He made a disgusted noise, gesturing sharply. “ _Words_. They always desert me when I most need them.”

Elayne reached up to cup his cheek. “It’s not that,” she promised. “You are everything I wanted and more. I just…I have to go.”

_Unmask! Unmask!_

He swallowed and nodded, then suddenly grabbed her hand and pressed a kiss against her palm. “Tell me I’ll see you again,” he said, voice still enough to send shudders to her core.

Elayne took a step back, toward the door, reluctantly pulling away. “You’ll see me again,” she said, taking another step. “Tomorrow night.” Another. “At the ball.” She was very near the door now, aware of the way he wouldn’t—couldn’t?—look away. “I’ll be the lady in blue. You’ll know me.”

“I’m beginning to think I’d know you anywhere,” he said, and before she could let herself be tempted by the beautiful figure he cut against the moonlight, Elayne lifted the long folds of her skirt, turned, and fled.

One midnight gone.


	8. Chapter 8

Elayne spent the hours between midnight and the following day’s sunset restlessly fighting not to come out of her skin. It was so hard, knowing he was in the castle…knowing he was near. She slept with one arm wrapped around her pillow as if to keep the bubbling excitement close. Trapped within the fragile cage of her body, emotion somehow too big, too _real_ to be contained by mere flesh.

And yet, despite the buzz of nerves, she slept better that night than she had since stumbling out of the Fade…and she woke with a smiling face tipped up toward the sun.

_Marcus. Marcus, Marcus, Marcus._

But before she could see him again, she had a full day of needing to be herself, sans mask. The dye rinsed from her hair the way Leliana had said it would, but Elayne kept one raven lock as a reminder of the night passed…and the ones to come. She tucked it carefully hidden into her usual messy bun, letting it be her secret—the way the dragonbone corset she still wore beneath her finest robes was a secret.

Every time she took a breath and felt it bearing down against her flesh, she felt a flare of heat low in her belly. It throbbed in time with her pounding heart. If she closed her eyes, she could feel the wind buffeting her skirts, the drag of his fingertips along her jaw, the slick heat of his tongue twining with…

“Well it seems that someone is useless this day,” Leliana said, voice dripping with amusement.

Elayne looked up guiltily, realizing she had no idea what they had been talking about. “I’m sorry,” she began, at the same moment Cullen said, “I apologize for my lapse.”

She jerked her head to stare at him, startled. Cullen was nothing if not exhaustingly focused. Even struggling against the pain of withdrawal the way she knew he still did, there had never been a moment when she had suspected he might not be in perfect control.

His sheepishly arched brows surprised a laugh out of her. “You too, Ser Cullen?” she teased. 

“My mind _has_ been known to wander a time or two,” he said dryly, fingers straightening the little iron pieces before him into a straight line.

“Especially when it is my turn to report, it seems,” Josephine added. Her lips were twisted into a smile. “Well. Never let it be said I am one to keep the unwilling trapped by my whims. You can read my report on the first night of the ball later if that interests you.”

Elayne opened her mouth to reassure her ambassador—who didn’t look particularly offended, but one never knew—but Cullen said before she could manage, “Actually, do you have a copy I can take with me now?”

All three of them turned to stare. He colored under their regard, pink sweeping across his cheeks as he cut his eyes away. Even in that bold collared coat, that armor, sword at his hip and years of military experience under his belt, he suddenly looked like a flustered young boy. “Well,” he added, “if I’m to miss the whole affair, I may as well keep track of what is going on.”

“True,” Leliana said, tapping her lips with a single finger—obviously hiding a smile. “Very true. Josie?”

“I’ll have the report finished and sent to your office within the hour, Ser Cullen.” Josephine’s eyes were dancing. “If you wish, I can even earmark the pages with the best gossip.”

He huffed a breath. “The lot of you are mocking me,” he said. “One moment of interest—for the sake of the Inquisition, mind you—in the affairs of noblewomen and all the three of you can do is laugh.”

Noble _women_. Cullen clearly didn’t notice his own slip, but Josephine was stifling a giggle behind a hand.

“ _I’m_ not laughing, Cullen,” Elayne said, widening her eyes innocently. Before he could reply, she added, “Of course, I need to work through my complete _shock_ before I can decide on the appropriate jest. Just give me time.”

Cullen lifted his hands in a warding gesture—but his lips were curved into a wry smile. “I can see when I am outmatched. I believe this calls for a retreat. If there is nothing else?” His warm golden gaze (enough to send an unwelcome prickle of heat through her because of how much it reminded her of her masked man) swept over the three of them.

Her heart was suddenly pounding, though Elayne couldn’t say why. Thankfully, Josephine inclined her head and said, “I have nothing more to report.”

“Fly away, Commander,” Leliana added. “You have earned your reprieve.”

He gave a half-bow that could have been serious or meant as a jest—sometimes it was very difficult to tell with the former Templar—and left the room. Leliana followed him to the big War Room door, pushing it closed behind him. She turned to lean against it, both brows arched. “ _So?_ ”

Elayne glanced over at Josephine, then straightened in surprise when she realized the other woman was coming around the table toward her with an expectant look. _Both_ of them were suddenly watching her like hungry cats, and she the canary not so safely out of reach as she might have liked.

 _You should have made your retreat, as Cullen did._ “I’m sorry?” Elayne said, flustered. She turned until the edge of the table was biting against her lower back, Josephine and Liliana ringed expectantly before her.

They shared a look; Josephine inclined her head to Leliana. “You must have some details of your evening you wish to share,” Leliana said. “Did you enjoy yourself? Did you dance? Did you _meet someone?_ ”

“Especially the last,” Josephine added. “The last is very important, Inquisitor.”

She was blushing. No—she was immolating from the inside out, heat sweeping over her features. Elayne didn’t doubt she was a bright pink from the tops of her breasts to the tips of her ears. “What a question to ask,” she stalled.

“I _knew_ it,” Leliana said with a bright, rare laugh. “I knew it the moment I saw you this morning.”

“Shush with your gloating,” Josephine chided. “ _I_ want all the details. Do not worry,” she added with her own laugh at Elayne’s expression, “they won’t appear in any reports.”

Elayne gave her own breathless laugh. Her ambassador and spymaster were acting like gossiping schoolgirls—was this what having girlfriends was like? Was this how she would have behaved with her friends after every major event if her powers had never developed and she’d remained in her comfortable Ostwick home?

It felt…surprisingly wonderful. Even though her stomach was twisting up into a hundred knots, it felt so good.

“Don’t you already know everything?” Elayne asked, stalling for time. She lifted her hands, pressing the backs of each briefly to her hot cheeks. “You _are_ our spymaster after all.”

Leliana waved that off. “I could know that way if I wanted,” she agreed. “But I asked my eyes and ears to look the other way when certain targets passed by, and they are nothing if not obedient.”

“Targets such as yourself,” Josephine clarified, “and a handful of other very minor players. We would not want anyone—even our own men and women—to grow suspicious if we singled you out.”

“Yes—even my people would wonder at that. Much cleaner this way.”

Elayne straightened. “But wait,” she said. “You told your eyes and ears not to watch me? _Why?_ ”

The two women exchanged a brief but significant look. “We promised you freedom for three nights, Inquisi—Elayne,” Josephine explained softly. “We want you to feel free to do whatever you want without worrying that anyone would take note.”

“You are under too much scrutiny every day as it is,” Leliana added. “You deserve three nights knowing you are not being watched or judged.”

And that—that impossible, glorious thought, that care her two advisors took on her behalf—nearly brought tears to Elayne’s eyes. She looked down and away, overwhelmed by a surge of gratitude. Even as she’d danced, flirted, _kissed_ , she’d felt a prickling awareness that there were always people watching and reporting back. Now that she knew that wasn’t the case, she wanted…

She didn’t know what she wanted. She wanted so _much_.

“Thank you,” she murmured, fingers curling around the lip of the table. She wished there was something she could do to truly show her gratitude. These two women had given her a gift. These two women _were_ a gift. The mark had brought so many dark things into her life—demons and horrors and ancient darkspawn magisters and the constant threat of death—but it had also brought _friends_. Friendships like these seemed worth a few battles to the death. “It means…a great deal to me. That you are doing this.”

“Elayne.” Josephine reached out and tucked back a stray blond curl. Elayne turned her face toward the gesture, catching the ghost of Josephine’s perfume on the air—jasmine and vanilla filling her lungs. Josephine’s smile was soft and a little sad. “You should not have to thank us for showing you basic humanity.”

Leliana didn’t reach out for her—she had never been quite as warm as Josephine, even though she had been thawing slowly but surely since their meeting in Haven—but her eyes were softer than Elayne ever remembered seeing them. “This will not be the last time, either,” she said. “We won’t make the mistake of overlooking your needs again. You’ll be given more regular breaks to unwind and recharge.”

“But you haven’t been—” Elayne tried to protest, but Leliana shot her a look that made the words die on her lips. “All right,” she said instead, smiling almost shyly. “That sounds nice. Thank you.”

“Good!” Josephine clapped her hands together as if everything had been settled. Her smile turned sly. “Now that we have agreed, let us go back to our original question—tell us _everything_ you are willing to about your evening. Who did you dance with? How late did you stay? Did you enjoy yourself? Did you meet any…agreeable men?”

“Especially the last,” Leliana added, lips quirking. “I am very much interested in the last.”

Elayne looked between them, a laugh startled out of her. “But you just got through telling me my movements would be unremarked,” she teased.

Leliana gave a little snort. “True, but that is officially. This is gossip; I do love good gossip.”

“It is true,” Josephine agreed. “It is why she makes such a good spymaster—she wants to know everything.”

“ _Everything_.”

She laughed again, feeling a thousand times lighter inside than she had in ages. She’d had a perfect night. She had friends all around her who cared about her and who she cared about in return. And tonight… Tonight she would see him again. Tonight she would be in his arms and feel his breath hot against her upturned face and…

“There was a man,” she began slowly, feeling the blush spread across her cheeks again as she spoke. “He is funny and confident and sweet and… _warm_ , in every way.” She closed her eyes, picturing him standing there in his dark blue tunic, eyes locked on her as if he couldn’t bring himself to look away. “I kissed him. I want to kiss him again.”

Josephine made a low, pleased noise but was immediately shushed by Leliana.

Elayne ducked her head, loose curls brushing her hot cheeks, happiness unfurling like a banner in her chest, filling her until she thought she couldn’t possibly hold anymore. It was too much, it was all too much—and yet, she wanted _more_. She wanted _everything._

“And I’m going to see him again tonight.”


	9. Chapter 9

On the second night of the ball, it was like stepping into another world. Even more courtiers, delayed by an unexpected snowfall, had arrived as evening fell. The Keep felt full to bursting, and the Grand Hall was packed with vibrant color and light. The music echoed like a dream all around her, drifting from Vivienne’s promenade. Torchlight made the stained glass figures appear to move with each flicker, and the scent of perfume hung heavy and heady all around.

Standing at the foot of the throne’s dais, buffeted on all sides by a wall of sound and smell and _color_ , Elayne felt as if she had stepped once more into the Fade; masked faces were a blur of sensation, impression. She was dizzy, disoriented, _thrilled_ down to her bones.

This was a crowd anyone could be lost in.

She cast around one last time, then slowly moved down the steps to join the dancers. The sea parted for her without question, glances cast her way, whispers following in her wake.

Tonight, she was the lady in blue.

The Orlesian dress followed a similar silhouette as the Antivan, but that’s where the similarities ended. The pale blue was the color of morning frost, shifting with each breath of wind to silver-white and back. It drifted in multiple layers that should have been heavy, but the fabric was so impossibly light, it was almost like wearing a whisper. It _floated_ as she moved, color deepening and brightening each time the light caught her: living ice.

The bodice was once again fitted tight, following the exaggerated hourglass of the dragonbone corset. A fine silver filigree spanned the delicate fabric from her waist to the curve of her breasts. The same filigree covered her otherwise bare arms, encasing her in delicate sleeves that somehow bent with the suppleness of cloth. Thicker bands of silver encased her wrists and wrapped around to cover the tops of her hands and palms…cleverly hiding the mark the way her gloves had the night before.

Black hair was pulled up into an elaborate waterfall of curls, twists of that delicate silver pinning it in place. A silver mask with flashing blue gems hid her identity; matching gems gleamed at her throat. She hadn’t realized she could feel even more beautiful than she had before. She would never be able to thank Leliana and Josephine enough for giving her this.

And yet, there was something—someone—very important missing from her evening.

Elayne turned slowly, skirt ghosting across the flagstones, and scanned the crowd. There were so many of them it was hard to pick out individuals. Every time she saw blue she turned her head, his name on her lips—only to be disappointed.

The song changed, dancers parting and then coming together like colored glass in a kaleidoscope. A tall man in a bronze tunic caught at her elbow, but Elayne brushed him aside without a word; there was only one man she wanted tonight, and if she couldn’t find him… If he had _left_ or grown disinterested…

No. No, she wouldn’t think like that.

“Pardon me,” she murmured, pushing past a trio of gossiping older women. The door leading to Josephine’s office was left open, a smaller crowd gathered amongst the ambassador’s things. The desk had been cleared away but there were chairs here for couples to retire and recharge. Voices drifted up from the steps leading to the secondary hall, and all the way down to the War Room.

But Marcus was nowhere to be seen.

Elayne let out a soft breath. It seemed unfair that she should spend her day longing to see him again, only to lose him amongst the crush of courtiers. A woman tried to catch her eye and Elayne turned her face away, confidence slowly crumbling with each minute that ticked by. She bit the inside of her mouth and slipped back out into the Grand Hall, fighting the confusing swirl of emotions as she rose high on her toes and scanned the room again, _hoping_ —

Nothing. There was _nothing_.

“You are such a fool,” she murmured to herself, hands clenched uselessly at her sides. The swirl of the ball continued without her, but the tone had subtly changed with her mood—now the dizzying whirl seemed disorienting rather than exciting, cruel rather than gay. She didn’t know any of these people; they didn’t know her, but they were _watching_ her as if they did, eyes dragging across the beautiful dress as if that were enough to define her.

And all at once, she had to get out of there. She couldn’t _breathe_.

Turning on her heel, Elayne hurried toward the main doors. The crush was worse the closer she got to the exit, nobles near elbow-to-elbow in places—laughing, gossiping, voices rising in an incomprehensible roar. Elayne tried to slip around politely, then gave up and began to push her way through. Her heart was hammering in her chest and her eyes pricked with stupid, girlish tears. How _stupid_ she was to hope so hard. Hadn’t she learned by now that her life was anything but a fairytale?

“Excuse me,” she said, nearly to the door. She could feel the cool wind on her face, the kiss of snowflakes with each gust. She pushed past a last cluster of women in elaborate ballgowns that rustled like the underbrush as she waded through…and then she was breaking free, back out onto the main steps of Skyhold where she could _breathe_ again.

The clean scent of winter filled her lungs, dispelling the heady blend of perfume and warm bodies. The whistle of the wind drowned out all but the occasional high laugh, the wail of a violin. She closed her eyes and let herself sink into comingled relief and disappointment…then sighed and picked up the long train of her beautiful dress and started down the steps.

“My lady.” Another step. “ _My lady_.” Another, strong wind whipping the layers of her skirt around her legs, dark curls dragging across her cheek. 

Then, louder, “Jenny!” a familiar voice rasped, and Elayne turned with a start. _He_ was sidestepping that last cluster of guests to stumble out onto the steps after her, dressed in the same dark blue tunic with its strange military accents, hair ruffled and cheeks flushed from the crowd. He froze when he caught her eyes, and the jolt of… _something_ …that passed between them was enough to steal the air from Elayne’s lungs.

He looked like a prince from one of the stories she used to read as a girl. Standing there under the moonlight, framed by the golden doorway, light from the ball casting a halo about him, he looked like every wish her romantic heart had ever dreamed up.

She reached out impulsively and he hurried down the steps to catch her hand, lifting it not to his mouth, as she had half expected, but to press over his heart. She could feel it racing beneath her fingers, echoing the erratic beat of her own. “I searched everywhere,” he said, dipping his head toward hers. His voice was low, intimate; she trembled at the sound. “I thought maybe you had changed your mind and would not come.”

“Never,” Elayne breathed. She reached up with her free hand, impulsively cupping his face; he shuddered in return…and didn’t pull away. “I tried to find you, too. But the ball…”

“Is a madhouse,” Marcus said. His lips twisted wryly and he reached up to catch her wrist, circling it with big, capable fingers. She gasped at the rasp of callouses over her skin—then bit back a moan when he turned his face and kissed the delicate inside of her wrist. His breath was hot against the pale skin, the tracery of her veins, but his eyes didn’t leave hers. “I’m glad I found you.”

She shivered hard, heat blossoming slowly deep inside. Her nipples were tightening, nearly painful, and she needed—

Elayne wet her lips and dropped her gaze, fighting the impulse to surge close and _take_ what she needed.

“Are you cold, my lady?” he murmured in that low, husky voice that _did things_ to her body. Elayne squeezed her thighs together and shook her head, but he was already pulling back, fingers fumbling at the silver buttons of his coat.

“Wait,” she protested. “You’ll freeze.”

He shot her a dry look, lips quirking as he shrugged out of the coat. He was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt beneath the heavy blue velvet, a silvery-blue vest nearly the same color as her dress clinging to the incredible breadth of him. Maker, his shoulders alone were a thing of beauty, and the bit of bare throat visible through the first two undone buttons of his shirt made her literally weak at the knees.

“I am sturdier than I look,” he said with a crooked smile, stepping in—so very close—to wrap the coat around her shoulders. It was heavy and warm, the scent of him lifting from its folds. It was all she could do not to press her nose against it and fill her lungs; she couldn’t control the impulse to rub her cheek against the fine nubby fabric, watching as his eyes flared with unexpected heat.

Oh Maker, the way he was watching her. “Enjoying the sight of me in your clothing?” Elayne murmured throatily. The flush creeping up his cheeks was all the answer she needed, giving her back the confidence she had lost—at least enough to tease, “Does it feel like you’ve marked me? Claimed me?”

He cleared his throat. “Perhaps not anything quite so… Yes.” 

They shared a laugh, and it felt so good to just give herself over to it. Dorian had been right—it was easier if she didn’t try to overthink, overplan, and just let nature take its course. Every time she closed her eyes and just trusted that things would work out, the two of them seemed to find their rhythm without any trouble. That _ease_ could have meant something deeper if she allowed it.

“Did you want to dance again?” Elayne asked impulsively. “Or perhaps we could go for a walk. It’s a beautiful night out.”

“Anything but dancing,” he said. “You’ve already seen the sum total of my skill in the area.” He offered his arm and she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, allowing herself to drift until they brushed together as they descended the stairs.

Snow was lazily drifting from the rooftops and the stars were silver-bright above them. The moon hung high, crescent-shaped and shy in the heavens. “Oh, I don’t know,” Elayne said, huddled happily within the warmth of his coat, feeling the play of his muscles against her fingertips. “I thought you were impressive.”

“The lady is too kind,” he murmured with a quirk of his brow.

She tipped her face up to grin at him. “She’s also quite sheltered, so it doesn’t take much to impress her.”

That surprised a full, rich laugh from him. It shivered through her, a rare, uncomplicated happiness making her toes curl in response. 

“Not to belittle your talents, which I’m sure are legion,” Elayne added with a flirtatious tilt of her chin. “I— _Oh!_ ”

The last came on a sharp breath, muffled by his mouth as all of a sudden he turned, cupping her jaw and lifting her face for an unexpected kiss. They were standing on the last landing just before it turned toward the frozen ground, and the ball seemed a million miles away. His lips were soft against hers, moving in a slow, undemanding glide, as if he had all the time in the world. His thumbs brushed along her cheeks just below the metal curve of the mask, and he swallowed her sigh with a low noise rumbling deep in his chest.

_This_ , Elayne thought, eyes flickering closed as snow caught against her lashes, in her hair, in the silver-blue folds of her perfect dress, _is the kind of kiss every girl dreams of._

When he finally pulled back, breaking the kiss, Elayne very nearly followed. She clung to the front of his shirt, pressed against the warmth of his body as if she needed his strength to stand. And who knew? Maybe she did. Maybe if she pulled away, she would crumble to the cold stone, breathless, boneless, electrified.

She slowly opened her eyes, lips still parted. His hands clutched spasmodically at her waist as he drew in a serrated breath.

_You feel it too_ , she didn’t say. _This impossible thing between us._

“What was that for?” she said instead; her voice was a ghost of itself, throaty and thick with desire.

He pulled her against him with a low noise, one arm bracing the curve of her spine, the other splayed across her back. Elayne ducked her chin, only too happy to sink back into him. She made an involuntary sound when he brushed his lips over her temple. “I couldn’t seem to help myself,” he admitted. His breath gusted over her ear, stirring the baby-fine curls that had escaped even the most determined styling. “You looked like something out of a dream—back when my dreams were good.”

Elayne lifted her head at that, brows knit. “Are your dreams so often troubled?”

“Not last night,” he said, and that confession—spoken low, gravely, with more honesty than courtly manners—nearly undid her. The implication there was clear: last night was when he met _her_.

“I’m glad,” she said as honestly as she could manage in her borrowed accent. She reached up to trace the edges of his mask with the backs of her fingers, loving the way he closed his eyes in reflexive pleasure. “I’m so, so glad.”

Marcus reached up to catch her hand again, pressing a kiss against her palm as if he couldn’t help himself. Maker but that made her body flush with pleasure. “Tell me your name?” he murmured against her skin.

And oh, she wanted to. She suddenly wanted nothing more. She opened her mouth to speak, the truth on her tongue—but no, _no_ , she couldn’t. If she was just Elayne the woman, it wouldn’t matter, but the Herald of Andraste? Whatever they had here would be ruined under the weight of that title. He would pull back, and he would never look at her like this again.

She was starting to realize she needed the memory of the way he watched her—dazed and wanting—to take with her to her early grave. She needed to be able to look back on her short life and know that just once, she had been nothing more than a beautiful woman being kissed breathless just beyond the glittering lights of a winter ball.

Snowflakes in their lashes and lips warm against her skin—could the truth really do anything but ruin this dream?

“Jenny,” she said quietly, drawing her hand away. She stepped back, putting a breath of distance between them—it wasn’t until she pulled away that she became aware of the cold. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” he murmured.

She turned away, shivering with the bittersweet disappointment. In another life, she might have lifted her mask and he his. She could have been his. They’d have her parents to convince if he truly was from a minor Kirkwall house, but they could do it—from the hazy memories she had of her mother and father, they were kind. They would want her to be happy.

And then…what? Courting and teasing and stolen kisses by the fire. Sitting side by side at boring society dinners and slipping her hand under the table to hold his when he grew restless and irritable. A proposal one twilight as they walked through a garden, meant to be grand but going all wrong as he awkwardly tried to spout all the _useless flirtations_ she liked to tease him about, then gave up and said the words with all the raw honesty in his heart.

_I would be honored if you would be my wife._

A wedding, the both of them desperate to steal away from the too-grand affair to just be together…the night of the wedding, his body bronzed by firelight, his mouth hungry against her aching skin…years later, ordinary and happy, and perhaps eventually her body changing as she grew big with the children that would fill their modest home with so much laughter…

Years passed in a blink of an eye, a beautiful tapestry of dreams. _That_ was what Elayne of Ostwick could have had, if the world had been different.

The Herald of Andraste had a much more terrible and bloody road to walk.

She shivered again, fighting the bitter tears that wanted to come—and drew in a shuddery breath when he stepped behind her and wrapped her in his arms. Back-to-chest, dwarfed in his firm grip, Elayne felt suddenly, blissfully…safe. Maker only knew how long it would—could—last, but the fact that she was experiencing it at all, that this masked man could give her this…

“If I could tell you,” Elayne murmured, staring out at the dark ridge of the Frostbacks, inky black against the star-filled sky, “please believe me that I would. There’s—”

_Something about you._

_I trust you._

_Given enough time, as crazy as it sounds, I think I could love you._

She couldn’t say any of that, of course, so she just let silence fall again, sinking back against him and letting herself pretend this didn’t eventually have to end.

Finally, Marcus leaned in and pressed a soft kiss against the arch of her neck. It was wonderful, how easy he was with affection when he forgot himself. He seemed so awkward and stiff sometimes, as if continually second-guessing what he should say or do. But then other times, like now, he didn’t stammer or hesitate. He didn’t leave room for doubt. “Come inside with me,” he murmured, grip on her tightening. He had one broad palm pressed flat against her stomach, holding her close against the cradle of his body. The other lifted to run up and down her arm as if to warm her. “There’s a tavern. It won’t be as crowded there.”

Elayne turned in his arms, tipping her face up to his. She met those golden eyes, searching out any sign that he was annoyed with how coy she had to be—but all she saw there was incredible kindness. Acceptance, even without the related understanding.

Oh yes. It would be ridiculously easy to fall in love with a man like this, even if she _never_ knew his real name.

“Kiss me first?” she asked, rising up on her toes. She slid her arms around his neck, spanning his impossibly broad shoulders. Her breasts dragged along the starched white of his shirt and they both drew in a heavy breath at the same moment, bracing against the coiling heat that never seemed to fully die between them.

His eyes had gone heavy-lidded and his voice was liquid honey as he wrapped an arm around her waist, hoisting her even closer. “As you wish,” he said—and then caught her mouth in a hungry kiss that made everything else—her fears, her hopes, the entire _world_ —fall away into nothing.


	10. Chapter 10

It was so easy to get lost in him.

Elayne sank deeper into Marcus’s embrace, overwhelmed by the drag of their bodies, the surge of heat that never seemed to fail to spark between them. She was thrilling to it, aching with it, pulse tripping and breath coming in little pants as their tongues slicked together. His big hands were gripping the heavy material of his coat—still draped precariously over her shoulders—but she could tell from the coiled-tight intensity of him that he wanted more.

He wanted to slide his hands possessively over her body.

He wanted to push up the diaphanous folds of her gown and claim bare skin.

He _wanted her._

And Maker, but she wanted him too. She wanted him not to hold back anymore. She wanted him to _take_ her.

“It’s all right,” Elayne murmured into the kiss, arching up with a low noise. She could feel the hard jut of him against her belly—could feel the fine tremor wracking his frame as he fought to hold back. She pulled away just enough to kiss his chin, down his jaw, scraping her teeth across the light stubble and making him moan.

The sound shot straight through her. She was _aching_.

“Jenny,” he began, voice thick. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing, and she gave into the temptation to swipe her tongue up the column of his throat; his hands clenched spasmodically when she sucked at the thrumming pulse.

“I _want_ you to touch me,” Elayne continued breathlessly, as if he hadn’t spoken. She rose up onto her tiptoes, shuddering at the drag of his straining erection against her. She was _wet_ , squirming against the slick ache. Her entire body felt as if it were vibrating with need—how could he do this to her with just a kiss? “Please.”

Marcus moaned, grip on her tightening, and she could feel him beginning to slide one hand up—then stalling, unsure. It was endearing when he had these fits of confidence, but now…Maker, now she didn’t want to be charmed, she wanted to be _handled_. She tipped her head back, arching into a long, sinuous bow. Her breasts felt full and tight, nipples hard against the whisper-soft material of her dress, and she wanted, she _wanted_ …

“Oh Andraste save me, you are so beautiful,” he said; his voice was thick and husky, white puffs of cold air surrounding them on each word, each breath. “I’ve never seen—”

He broke off mid-word and suddenly tightened his grip on her, one arm going about her hips like steel, lifting her off her feet for a dizzying moment as he hauled her against him. One powerful thigh pushed between hers, fawn-colored leather, muscle, pressed _tighttighttight_ against her throbbing cunt, keeping her pitched precariously against the solid wall of his chest.

Elayne lifted her head with a gasp, blinking up at him in silent amazement…then closing her eyes on a moan when Marcus reached up his other hand to cup the heavy weight of her breast.

“ _Maker_ ,” she breathed, bucking into it, hips dragging against his thigh. The pressure sent a throb of heat through her, spiraling up and up and up, snagging on the sharp pleasure of his calloused thumb rasping over her nipple and creating a feedback loop. Elayne cried out, barely biting back the full noise in time. Maker, there was a hall full of people not twenty yards away—they could be heard. They could be _seen_.

That shouldn’t have made her want to moan all the louder.

“So beautiful,” Marcus was murmuring, thumb dragging over and over across the tight pucker of her nipple. He shifted, deliberately dragging his thigh along her cunt through layers and layers of fabric, and his hot mouth found the column of her neck, tongue—

“Please,” she whispered, eyes squeezed shut against the assault of fresh sensation. “Please, please.”

—tracing scalding hot designs against her thundering pulse, down to the delicate wings of her collarbone. She was coming out of her _skin_ , moving restlessly, hips shifting in helpless circles, searching for… For…

“A treasure hunt!” someone all too close called out, and Elayne had to clap a hand over her mouth to stifle a frustrated cry when Marcus pulled away. She staggered to catch her balance, grateful when he immediately reached out to catch her even as she slumped back against the gilt railings Vivienne had insisted on adding to the main Skyhold steps.

_Bless_ Vivienne. Without her foresight, Elayne’s wobbly legs may very well have sent her tumbling ass over teakettle to the hard ground below.

“Are you all right?” Marcus murmured; his voice was thick with arousal, his eyes—oh Maker—pits of black rimmed by gold. His lips were slick and swollen from her kisses, and if she looked down…

Well.

She was very interested in which she would see if she looked down, but first she had to gather her scattered, drugged thoughts enough to deal with the small but rapidly growing crowd pouring out of the Grand Hall and spilling down the steps toward them.

“I’m fine,” she assured Marcus, straightening. She grabbed the end of his coat and slung it around between them, pressing it into his arms. “Here, take this.”

“But you’re,” he began even as he gratefully took it; the ends of it hung low in his arms, covering him to the thigh.

“In less of a need right now than you,” Elayne said dryly. People were pushing past them in droves, laughing and talking excitedly. She only caught impressions of what they were saying—something about Madame Ambassador leaving clues hidden bout the Keep, and a treasure for the winner chosen by the Herald herself as part of the evening’s festivities—and she didn’t _want_ to know more. She wasn’t a part of their world tonight. She wasn’t a part of their lives. She was Marcus’s, and she resented their intrusion on her perfect moment.

On that breathless coil of heat.

“You’re not going to run away again, are you?” he murmured, and she looked up at him, surprised by the intensity in that question. His eyes were locked on hers. The whole bright, laughing crowd may as well not have existed.

Elayne reached out and brushed her fingers across his full bottom lip. “I’m not going anywhere right now,” she murmured.

_Right now_. She couldn’t make promises for longer than that, no matter how much she wanted to, but maybe for now that wouldn’t matter. He smiled against her fingertips, bittersweet, and she found herself smiling back—then laughing when someone clipped his shoulder, sending him stumbling forward a step.

“Whoa there,” Elayne teased, catching him even as his hand fell to her elbow as if to steady _her_. He was looking around at the wild stampede of finely dressed nobles, frowning darkly. “We should probably make a strategic exit before we’re trampled.”

“Sound the retreat,” he said, sounding so very much like Cullen that for a moment she could have _sworn_ — But no. Cullen would skewer himself on his own sword before voluntarily attending the masque. Besides, she knew for a fact that he was holed up in his tower, determined to avoid his admirers. She _may_ have asked Dorian to keep his ears peeled for any good gossip for her.

But still, the similarities were enough that Elayne felt a brief twinge of guilt. She wasn’t kissing Marcus and thinking of Cullen, was she?

No. No, absolutely not.

“My lady?” Marcus said, and Elayne forced the ridiculous, disquieting thought aside. She was thinking too much. Wasn’t tonight supposed to be all about _not_ thinking for once?

So instead she slipped her hand into his and squeezed his fingers. “Follow me,” Elayne said, tugging Marcus down the last flight of steps. They were surrounded on all sides by a river of brightly dressed guests, buffeted like debris caught in a jewel-toned current. If their hands weren’t linked, it would have been easy to lose each other in the press; once, Elayne glanced over her shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being trampled beneath elaborate ballgowns and capes of feathers.

She saw him by chance. Two landings up, just beginning to make his way down the steps, was a familiar figure. Dorian paused, catching Elayne’s eye the moment she spotted him in return. They shared a breathless, laughing smile, separated by far too wide a crowd to do more than silently acknowledge each other.

And then his eyes dropped very deliberately to the death grip she had on Marcus’s hands and his dark eyebrows _waggled_ above his delicate gold mask.

“Oh, you ass,” Elayne murmured to herself with a breathless laugh bubbling up inside her, tempted to flash him one of Sera’s favorite rude hand gestures…but at the last minute she stopped herself and instead gave Marcus’s fingers a squeeze. They started to veer left as the crowd veered right, pushing through silks and velvets with varying degrees of success.

Then a big hand dropped to her waist, and Elayne allowed herself to be led, thrilling at the novelty of it, passing through the final burst of courtiers and stumbling free. She let go of Marcus’s hand, then impulsively lifted her flowing skirts as she sprinted out into the fresh snow. She turned, laughing, caught in a beautiful swirl of blue gauze and silk, feeling— There were no words to describe what she was feeling. Young, foolish, effervescent, free. Marcus stood at the edge of the crowd of “treasure hunters”, watching her with a crooked smile.

Elayne lifted her arms and spun once, face tipped up toward the gentle snowfall. Maker, there was no magic that could rival tonight’s.

“What are you doing?” he asked, finally moving forward. He kept his dark blue coat folded over one arm and his eyes never left her. She could feel them on her like a touch, delicately brushing the bare column of her throat, the swells of her breasts, the pale, pale blue silk that floated in a cloud around her legs.

She reached for him and he came quickly, gladly, all too willing to gather her up against his broad chest as if she belonged there. “I’m being happy,” Elayne said breathlessly. She rocked up onto the tips of her toes and brushed their mouths together, letting their lips catch and the kiss linger. There was laughter and drunken snatches of singing nearby—courtiers calling to each other as they tramped through the door that led down to the kitchens for their hunt. They were nothing to her; they may as well have been the howl of the wind.

He reached up to cup her face as the kiss warmed, going deeper. His tongue brushed the crease of her mouth and she opened to him with a low noise, letting their tongues slick together slow and sweet and scalding enough to make her toes curl. The desperation of a few minutes ago had been chased away by the crush of strangers, but one touch was enough to stir the embers again.

Elayne shivered and forced herself to pull back. His eyes were dark and more than a little dazed when he blinked down at her. “If we continue like this,” she said, “we’ll freeze before we ever reach the tavern. Come morning they’ll find us locked together like queer little ice sculptures.”

“I would hate to clutter up the Inquisition’s lawn,” he murmured. He slid his thumb across her lips as if brushing away his own kiss before stepping back to put some distance between them. She instantly felt the cold where moments ago there had been nothing but warmth.

But then he gave an elaborate bow, eyes never leaving hers, and offered his hand as if he _were_ a prince from one of the fairy stories. “My lady,” he said in that deliciously raspy voice.

And _oh_ she could live and die a thousand times in this one perfect moment.

Elayne bit back a brilliant, beaming smile and slipped her hand back into his, thrilling at how small it looked in comparison as he tugged her close. Closing rifts and smashing through Venatori camps left her feeling strong, commanding—and she _enjoyed_ that. But right now, she was enjoying the novel sensation of feeling soft, _delicate_. As if she were bruisable as rose petals and somehow three times as sweet. The way Marcus slid that coat around her shoulders again and pulled her to his side as they walked together to the tavern…it made her feel so very cherished. Protected.

It didn’t matter that she was strong enough not to need his protection; it mattered that he cared strongly enough to offer it.

She turned her face to press it against his chest, one hand sliding out of the warmth of his coat to tangle in his pristine white shirt. “Thank you,” Elayne murmured.

He brushed his lips over the crown of her head. “For what?”

There was no way she could put everything she was feeling into words, so she just snuggled closer, enjoying the scent of him, the sound of snow crunching under their feet, the distant drifts of music and laughter. “For being here,” Elayne finally settled on. She smiled up at him as he pulled away just enough to open the tavern door. Together, they went inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things will get much more NSFW in the tavern, though Night Three will be the official night they, ahem, let loose. The UST has to end before Cullen goes mad.
> 
> Oh! And there will be art soon. Which is so awesome. :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Meglet and hornkerling. You guys are seriously the best; thank you. <3

The Herald’s Rest was blissfully quiet and almost—though not completely—empty. Maryden was at her usual perch, strumming the lute and singing a low, sweet tune Elayne wasn’t familiar with. There were a few masked men and women gathered in small knots at tables or lounging near the bar. One was sitting in Bull’s usual spot, and it was so bizarre to see such a painted dandy where the big Qunari usually sprawled.

It didn’t _feel_ right. She’d had time to get used to the changes in the Grand Hall, but this—this place she came to be with her friends—was all wrong.

They hesitated together just past the threshold, looking around. Marcus seemed almost as flat-footed as Elayne at the changes—though no, of course, he was just pausing to take in the beautiful gleaming wood, the delicate chairs and mosaic-topped tables Josephine had ordered to replace rough-hewn benches. He had no reason to realize everything wasn’t as it should be. Still, when he dropped a hand to her hip, Elayne pressed closer, taking comfort from his presence.

“Upstairs looks to be a little quieter,” he murmured, tipping his head toward hers. He rubbed a slow circle against her hip. “Do you want to claim a spot while I get us drinks?”

She nodded, loving the way he impulsively squeezed before letting go. Elayne stepped away, winding her way to the stairs, hyper-aware of appreciative eyes following her…and just as aware of the way Marcus loudly cleared his throat when one of her new admirers began to rise from his seat to follow. She turned her head to hide a laugh, hurrying up the steps with a whisk of ice blue fabric. The second floor was almost entirely empty save for a cluster of three patrons sitting together at one of the new booths. Her eyes swept the room, touching briefly on Sera’s little gable before lifting to the floorboards above her.

_Cole?_ she thought, slowly winding her way up the third flight. The third floor of the tavern had escaped most—though not all—of Josephine and Vivienne’s improvements. Comfortable high-backed booths had been installed here as well, as well as clusters of chairs and mosaic tables. Tapestries had been hung and small votives flickered, casting off dancing light…but it still felt like the real Herald’s Rest. It had that comforting scent of raw pine from floorboards that had not been carefully stained and waxed. The air was warm from the rising heat of the fire, relaxing, _good_. She found herself smiling as she trailed a hand over the railing, looking around the beautiful dim for her friend.

But he was nowhere to be found.

“Cole?” she whispered, moving to his usual corner. It was empty—well, empty of _him_. A lovely padded bench had been left in his place, angled cat-corner to the railing just far enough away that anyone sitting there could not be seen but could see down into the tavern. The music drifted up perfectly here, softer than two stories below. The votive on the nearby table had been blown out by the wind, and some guest had left her bouquet of snowdrops on the table, next to a small silken wristlet. Elayne brushed her fingertips over the petals, smiling at the sweet scent that rose around her.

She turned at the sound of a footfall.

Marcus stood several paces away, a silver tray in his hands. On it rested two glasses and a silver pitcher; he lifted it at her arched brows. “To save us the trouble of going up and down the steps,” he explained, moving to join her. He glanced about the cozy, dim corner as he slid the tray on the table next to the forgotten flowers and purse. “Are we encroaching on someone’s territory?”

“No,” she said at once. She didn’t have to look to know that the purse only held…oh, nutmeg, or some other spice; maybe a handful of pine needles? Yes, she decided, filling her lungs with a full breath. Definitely pine needles. There must be similar satchels hidden around the third floor to evoke the familiar scent she’d found so soothing. It was Cole’s doing, no doubt about it. The flowers, the perfect cushioned bench, the dim lights—he wasn’t here, but he was trying to tell her…

What?

_He just wants me to be happy._

Elayne reached out to take Marcus’s hand, twining their fingers together even as she accepted the glass he offered. He smiled down at her, so very soft, and she fought a blush as she took a sip of the light, sweet wine. It was strong, and heady, and perfect. Everything about tonight was so _perfect_.

“Sit with me?” she murmured, tugging at his hand. Marcus moved immediately to follow as she sank back onto the comfortable bench; the padding was divinely soft, as if filled with feathers instead of the usual stuffing. Cole again? Or was Josephine merely trying to outdo the Orlesians?

“I almost don’t know what to say to you,” Marcus admitted. He was sitting angled toward her, the gathered shadows making him look mysterious. Sexy. Beautiful. Her perfect masked man. “I feel like I know you—like I’ve known you for a long time—and yet we’ve barely had a chance to talk.”

She drained her glass and set it aside, but immediately regretted it. She needed something to do with her hands. “I know how you feel,” Elayne murmured. “It’s almost as if I should know everything about you, and yet we’ve only really been in each other’s company for a few hours at a time.”

“Wearing masks, no less.” He made a wry face. “Have I told you recently how much I dislike wearing a mask?”

Elayne laughed and brushed her fingers over his. He set his empty glass aside and took her hands, thumbs rubbing over the silver bands that covered her palms—covered the mark. His eyes were on hers, intent. It was so hard to speak when he was looking at her like that. “I can tell. I like it, much more than I thought I would. It lets me do things I wouldn’t dare otherwise.”

“Like?”

She shot him a coy look. “Put another few drinks in me and I fear I may show you.”

Marcus gave a quick grin and turned to refill their glasses with exaggerated haste. They laughed together, Elayne’s toes curling in pleasure even as she took the full glass of wine. She arched a brow and he actually colored, but held his ground. “Idle curiosity only, I assure you,” he said. “I would see what kind of boldness a mask might bring. Perhaps you will change my mind about them.”

“I see. But is it truly a fair experiment?” She took a sip, loving the way the wine made her head swim and her body flush. Or was that his proximity? “Can we say with any clarity that it was the mask and not the wine that encouraged boldness?”

“There was no wine by the steps either time,” he murmured, and his voice—dear Maker, his _voice_ —was enough to send a lick of flames through her belly. Elayne shifted and impulsively drained her cup, lifting it to be filled again. She wanted this man. She wanted him in a way that set her pulse to racing, her blood to heating. She was still slick from before, and the ache was back, small still, but a fire that could be easily stoked. A part of her was frightened, too, because this was something she had no experience in—

She drew in a breath, smelling the pine and snowdrops. Snowdrops had grown outside the library window at the Circle, she remembered. All spring, she’d sit curled on the padded bench with a book balanced on her knees, filling her lungs with their sweetness. Lost in stories of faraway kingdoms and brave knights, she was the happiest she had ever been until the mage rebellions had set her free.

She closed her eyes and shivered when he reached out to cup her face. “Is something wrong?” he murmured. She blindly set her glass aside, reaching up to tangle her fingers in the front of his shirt. He’d set the heavy velvet coat aside, and she could feel the warmth of him beneath the white cotton. His heart was racing, echoing the rush of her own pulse. 

“No,” she murmured, rubbing her cheek against his big, calloused palm. “It just overwhelms me a little from time to time.”

“What does? This?”

She opened her eyes, lashes flickering. In the dim, his mask was cast a dark pewter. Muffled laughter and voices rose from down below in a reminder that they weren’t alone. “How much I want you,” Elayne said, utterly open, honest. “I’ve never wanted anyone like this before.”

“Jenny,” he began, inching closer, but she lifted a hand to cover his mouth. 

“Don’t call me that,” she said. His breath was warm against her fingers, his lips soft. She wanted to kiss him so much it was almost a madness. “Not right now. We can’t be completely honest with each other, but… But right now, I want as few lies between us as possible.”

He kissed her fingers. His other hand fell to her waist, stroking up the exaggerated curve created by the corset, almost up to her breast, and then down again. His expression was deadly earnest. “I would do anything you asked of me right now,” he said when she slid her fingers across his stubbled jaw to slide up into his hair. “I would spout ridiculous poetry and fight duels and—and climb the bloody Frostbacks naked just to pick you flowers.”

She gave a breathless laugh, heart constricting. “Now there’s an image,” she teased.

“I swear you have me bewitched. All day, all I could think about was you. All I dreamed about was pressing you back against something soft and—” He faltered a little. “And kissing you, and— This isn’t very romantic; I’m sorry. Would you believe I’m _trying_ to be?”

Maker, this man was going to be the death of her. “Yes,” Elayne said, bubbling up with so much happiness that she felt light with it, weightless. “Would you believe that it’s working?”

“It is really? Well, then. Have I mentioned that you are the perfect woman?”

“Feel free to keep mentioning it.” She wet her lips, feeling that delicious buzz of attraction between them, of heat. Elayne shifted so she was angled more toward him, aware of the way her bodice tightened across her breasts…at the way each erratic breath made the pale cleavage strain against the neckline. His eyes dropped down and the _noise_ he made—stifled but clear between them—shot straight through her. She tipped back her chin, waiting.

“I,” he began, then faltered.

_Kiss me kiss me kiss me._ “When you dreamed of me,” Elayne murmured, “what did you dream?”

She could actually see the blush spreading beneath the mask, reddening his ears. He looked down and cleared his throat, adorably flustered. “I, ah,” he began. “Well. It’s…”

Elayne glanced down at the tavern below, where Maryden had switched to a new song. There were voices, laughter, but it all seemed like a world away—no one could see them, hear them, disturb them here. She took a breath and reached out to touch Marcus’s shoulder; his faltering words dried up and he looked at her with a wry twist of his lips, almost like an apology. _I love how you slip from suave to awkward and back again,_ she wanted to say, but instead she _showed_ him just how much he affected her; grip tightening, Elayne leaned forward to press their mouths together. Dark curls swept forward to brush his cheeks.

Marcus made a low noise against her mouth, almost like gratitutde. He slid a hand up to catch in her hair, tipping her head as he parted his lips and slowly dragged his tongue across the seam of her mouth. Elayne gasped, lips parting in welcome…but he continued tracing the very tip along her full bottom lip. It was hot, slick, teasing at the corners before _finally_ licking inside at her little gasp. She moaned when his tongue brushed against hers, and she rose up onto a knee, other leg braced against the floor as she pressed in closer in encouragement.

Maker, the way he kissed drove her mad.

Their tongues tangled again, _again_ , sliding together in a gradually building rhythm that had her shifting restlessly, beginning to ache. She kept her palms pressed against his shoulders, nails digging against hard muscle as his free hand swept across the tight boning of her corset, moving restlessly over her hip, her side, her stomach. He teased at her tongue with a flick of his own, then sucked lightly at the tip.

Elayne broke the kiss with a gasp, shuddering hard. She felt— She needed—

“Was that all right?” Marcus murmured, voice thick with renewed desire. It was insane how easy it was for them—how quickly things escalated until all she wanted, all she _needed_ was the feel of his hands on her, his _mouth_ , the hard jut of his erection pressed tighttighttight against her core. She bit her lower lip and nodded, wondering how to ask him for more.

Shoving aside her own doubts and just letting impulse take over, Elayne leaned in to press him against the padded back of the bench, then slid a thigh across his legs. Her arms twined around his neck as she settled in his lap, breasts grazing his muscular chest. Her knees were braced on either side of his hips, her body snug against his, a waterfall of blue silk and gauze trailing around them as she let her weight rest fully in his lap.

Marcus gave a muffled shout, eyes going wide. Both hands jerked to her waist, gripping _hard_ , and she would have asked if she had pushed too far…but the way he arched toward her, hips bucking, _dragging his cock_ along the slick seam of her smalls, sent all thought flying from her mind. _Maker_ he was hard, _hot_ , and when she shifted instinctively toward him, she could feel him press tight against the folds of her cunt.

“ _Oh!_ ” she gasped, hips snapping forward against her will. He rode out the unsubtle grind with a buck of his own hips, driving up against her hard enough that she saw _stars_. Her breath was coming in ragged pants all at once, echoed by his own uneven rasp. Their eyes were locked together, heated, wanting, stunned.

“Maker,” he breathed. He dug his nails into the unyielding prison of her corset and dragged her against him. The pressure was intense, _perfect_ , the near-painful hardness of her nipples rasping against his chest. Elayne dropped her head back, fighting to swallow the little helpless noises that kept trying to rise out of her; she tightened her thighs around his hips and rode the delicious bucking writhe of his body. “I want— What can I—”

She panted, clothing too tight, flesh hot and greedy. “ _Anything,_ ” she said, meaning it. The tease of the last two nights, the need for him—it was all much too much. She was losing her mind. “Please, Maker, I need— Anything.”

He reached up to fumble at the tiny buttons at the back of her dress even as he leaned in to mouth across her collarbone, up the column of her neck. His hot tongue trailed across her skin, sending delicious shudders wracking her flesh, and when he closed his teeth over her earlobe and tugged, she nearly whined at the ache. Elayne rocked her hips forward greedily, desperately trying to get closer, _closer_ , even as Marcus dragged his teeth down her neck; she shivered at the hot pant of his breath. Down below, someone was calling out a greeting to a friend. It was both distant and far too close. The illicit thrill blazed through her, the _danger_ of being caught at any moment as her bodice suddenly sagged just enough to reveal a scandalous amount of flesh.

Andraste save her, if she just arched her back, her breasts would tumble free. She’d foregone a breastband, the bodice tight enough to keep even _her_ stable, and the image that painted in her mind’s eye—big, heavy breasts spilling out into the warm air, her nipples dragging across his still respectably-clothed form—was enough to make her cunt _throb_ in response. Marcus’s hands were still busy unfastening more tiny buttons, and his mouth was blazing a hot trail across a bared shoulder. It was such a simple thing—such a simple, wanton, hedonistic thing—to grind against the hot brand of his cock and arch up with a breathless moan.

So she did.

The bodice sagged and she was spilling free, and ah, _void_ , it was just as hot as she’d pictured. The _noise_ he made, the way he surged up against her, the feeling of being so exposed: it all came together in one undeniable, delicious ache. Marcus lifted a hand to cup her breast, forcing her back into a more exaggerated bow as he dropped his head and drew it to his mouth. His thumb rasped over the peak before he caught her nipple between his lips, his _teeth_ , tongue flicking over the tight clench of it before he began to _suck_.

“Oh, _oh!_ ” Elayne gasped, shocked alive at how incredible it felt. She’d known from books, from her own questing fingers, that this might bring pleasure, but she never… She was _dissolving_ , need an impossible tight coil in her belly, tied by some internal string straight to her aching breasts. Each tug of his mouth, each scalding stroke of his tongue over her just wound her tighter and tighter and tighter until she swore she was about to come flying apart. 

She sucked in harsh, fast breaths, riding each delicious pull of his mouth, fingers gripping his hair. His other hand ( _Maker_ , his other hand) was cupping the other breast, lifting its weight before dragging a calloused thumb over the impossibly tight pucker. “ _Please._ ”

He turned his face with a drunken sound, stubble rasping across sensitive flesh. When he took her other nipple into his mouth, Elayne keened, shudders wracking her helpless body. She was losing what little mind she had left, barely able to swallow back the desperate cries in time. Who cared, _who cared_ , if someone would hear her? _Who cared_ if they would know she was up here being unmade by this man? She was nothing but endless waves of need, clit throbbing in time with her pulse, muscles going tight as she rode the rhythmic buck of his hips.

And then one of his hands dropped to push up her skirt and rough fingers were pushing between them, dragging over the sopping wet of her smalls. _Pushing inside._

She did cry out this time, far too loud; down below, there was sudden echoing silence, utterly damning. Marcus lifted his head with a hissed breath, fingers going still.

“Fuck,” Elayne murmured. She felt shocky, trembling all over. She wanted nothing more than for Marcus to push her down amongst the feather-soft pillows and claim her. But there were footsteps making their way slowly up from the tavern below and sudden loud voices (laughing, drunken, shouting about treasure and the hour) from the other side of the door at the far end of the landing.

“I’m sorry,” he said, withdrawing his hand (she refused to moan piteously in response) and gripping her waist. He lifted her off him and onto her trembly legs. Her skirts rustled as they settled around her, but her bodice still sagged, breasts spilling past the neckline, _slick_ from his mouth, held pert despite their heavy weight by the upper lip of the corset. Marcus dragged in a serrated breath, hungry eyes on her…but then he was tugging up the front of her bodice, trembling fingers trying to refasten that long row of tiny buttons. 

The voices drew closer; they’d be discovered any moment.

“Marcus,” Elayne began, looking over her shoulder, adrenaline spiking like crazy.

He growled, fumbling. She could feel palpable waves of his frustration. “Oh _void take it_ ,” he snapped, spinning her around. She reached up to grasp her breasts, holding the bodice over them, knowing just how long it had taken Josephine and Leliana to help her get _into_ the damn thing in the first place. “It’s not—” he began, buttoning every fifth button…just enough to cinch her in, to make her _decent_. 

“Your coat,” she began, tugging herself into a semblance of respectability. He flung the coat around her shoulders at the very _moment_ the door burst open, drunken, laughing courtiers spilling into the tavern’s third floor. They were lurching together in a bright flurry of color, masks dangling from their fingers; somewhere far away, the hour was tolling.

“Unmask!” one of the women laughed, moving toward them in an unsteady glide. She reached up as if to snatch off Marcus’s mask, and he turned his face quickly. Elayne sidestepped the gaudily dressed woman, letting herself be swept up in the crowd and toward the door. Whoever had been coming up the steps to check on the suspicious noise became lost in the crowd as well, and it was at once the perfect cover and a wrenching disappointment. If only she had been able to keep quiet a few moments longer… If only this crowd of ‘treasure hunters’ hadn’t stumbled into their quiet nest.

If only, if only, if only.

Elayne met Marcus’s eyes across a sea of people, feeling the ache that was echoed in his face. She wanted to stay with him; she wanted to spend all her hours with him, from now until…Maker, until forever. She wanted him so badly, and the fact that she couldn’t have this most basic desire—companionship, _romance_ —was more bitter than anything she had faced since stumbling out of the Fade.

“I’m sorry,” she mouthed across the vast and growing gulf between them.

“Jenny, wait!” he called, but she was already spinning on her heel and darting out of the room. She felt his coat flutter from her shoulders and fall to the floor behind her, exposing her hastily rebuttoned dress, but she didn’t pause; she didn’t dare. She knew he’d be at her heels in an instant, wanting answers to questions that frightened her more than Corypheus ever could. As she ran, she heard echoing laughter and the sound of chiming bells. 

“Unmask! Unmask!”

Two midnights gone.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art in Chapter Six by the incredible Feylen. Visit her tumblr to tell her how amazing she is!  
> http://feylen.tumblr.com/

Keeping a secret this big to herself was exhausting work. Leliana may not have had any of her eyes and ears on her, but she and Josephine were the most clever, most observant women she knew. Elayne was under no illusions that they saw through her five minutes after she entered the War Room for the morning update—and even if they had not, her own hot blushes would have been enough to give her away.

“ _Everyone_ will be gone tomorrow morning?” she murmured, fidgeting with one of Leliana’s iron ravens. She couldn’t seem to keep her hands still or meet their eyes. “That is…quite a speedy departure.”

“Everyone,” Leliana said, a curious note in her voice.

Josephine added, “It was one of your conditions for hosting the ball in the first place, Inquisitor. No more than three nights, four if they lined our pockets with gold. Those _were_ your instructions.”

She remembered. She regretted it bitterly now that she faced the prospect of losing him…but she remembered. Maybe they could allow their guests to tarry, now that they were here? “I—”

“Perhaps,” Cullen interrupted, “it would be possible to extend the invitation?”

Elayne jerked her head up at his perfect echo of her thoughts. Leliana and Josephine were both _staring_ at him, and Cullen was rapidly coloring. “Well,” he said.

“You _want_ to invite the nobles to stay on?” Leliana demanded. “ _You?_ ”

“I must be dreaming,” Josephine added with a single arch of her brow. “This must be the Fade. Inquisitor, please tell me—is this the Fade?”

She had no words; she could only stare at Cullen, and though he wouldn’t meet her eyes, she thought— It seemed as if— No, she was grasping at straws. She had to be.

He cleared his throat. “I have been reading the reports you’ve had delivered,” he said, “and I’ll admit, though I’m tired of playing the hermit in my own home, it seems this ball of yours is proving some use. Perhaps it would not be…so very bad…to extend it an evening or two.”

An evening or two more with Marcus. An evening or two more feeling beautiful, wanted, cherished. Her heart was pounding harder and she wanted so much to throw her voice in with Cullen’s. _Yes please, please,_ she could say. _Please let this not end._

Elayne closed her hands into fists, digging her nails into the meat of her palms. No, she _couldn’t_ say that. She couldn’t place her own needs above the Inquisition—especially not since Josephine was already shaking her head.

“As much as I wish to humor this sudden interest in politics, Commander,” she said dryly, “I’m afraid our hands are tied. The court was invited for a set amount of time. Extending their absence from The Winter Palace without proper approval from the Empress would be seen as a grave insult.”

“We cannot insult all of Orlais,” Elayne murmured. Her fists tightened. “They will leave as scheduled.” _He_ would leave, likely never to return.

Leliana casually leaned against the lip of the table to study Cullen. “On the brighter side, Commander, you will soon be allowed out of your lonely tower. I have it on good authority you keep your door locked all night long, and only Dorian and a small number of your senior officers are permitted to visit during the day.”

“I would prefer you not watch my movements so closely, Leliana,” Cullen said.

“I watch everyone’s movements closely, Commander,” she retorted. “I would make a very poor spymaster if I did not.”

Josephine, ever the diplomat, stepped in before things could escalate. “But perhaps the running commentary is less necessary. Ser Cullen, I will have the updated report on the ball delivered to you if you wish?”

“Yes,” he said stiffly. “Thank you.”

“If there is no more business to discuss?” Elayne added, suddenly eager to be gone. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts, with her…disappointments. With memories of Marcus and the fluttering hope-and-anxiety of seeing him again one final time.

Josephine smiled. “I have nothing more for you, Inquisitor.”

“There is nothing further to report,” Cullen said.

Leliana quirked a brow. “I have nothing official,” she began, “but if Josephine and I might have a moment of your time…”

For gossip, no doubt. They’d eagerly listened to her weave stories of the first night of the ball, and they would want to hear what had transpired during the second. She should tell them—part of her _wanted_ to share the experience with the two women, as if they were nothing more complicated than good friends—but another, larger part of her needed more time to be alone with her memories.

One evening left… It wasn’t near enough.

“Later, perhaps?” she murmured, not meeting either of their eyes. “I needed to have a word with Ser Cullen. Commander, will you walk with me?”

“Of course,” he said, immediately coming around the table to stand at her side. They moved shoulder-to-shoulder through the big War Room doors and silently cut through the passage to the Grand Hand.

It was stunning, even in full daylight. The debris from the night before had been cleared and everything was being set up for the final night of the ball. Walking across the gleaming onyx floors, Cullen at her side…it was almost like being with Marcus again. They were of a height, she realized with a twist of her heart. It would be so easy to trick herself into believing they were one and the same, if she allowed it. 

“You needed to speak with me, Inquisitor?” Cullen interrupted her long thoughts as they turned left toward Solas’s rotunda. They had to skirt around the delicate groupings of gilt chairs on their way to the far door.

Elayne made a face. “Honestly?” she said. “No. I just needed an excuse to avoid Josephine and Leliana.”

That surprised a laugh out of him. “Is it like that, then? I assume they wish to debrief you on the evening’s events?”

She tried very hard not to blush. “Ah, yes. Something like that.”

“For what it’s worth, I _am_ sorry to abandon you to our guests,” Cullen said, holding the outer door open for her. “Truly. I would offer to let you hide out in my tower if I thought…” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“No, but thank you. That’s _your_ sanctuary. Besides,” she added softly, “perhaps the ball has grown on me.”

“If you meet the right people, I suppose it could.”

Elayne glanced over at Cullen, surprised by the low, serious…almost _intimate_ tone. But he wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was far away, a thoughtful expression on his handsome face. “Perhaps,” she murmured for want of anything better to say. Then she noted the figure lounging against the closed door to Cullen’s tower. “Oh—it looks like Dorian is waiting for you.”

Cullen looked up, both brows arching. “It would seem he is,” he said. They came to a stop before the mage. “Dorian.”

“I see you’ve finally figured it out,” Dorian said with a wide, brilliantly happy smile. “And with no wounded feelings to be seen. All hail and huzzah.”

Elayne frowned. “I’m…sorry?”

“What _are_ you on about?” Cullen said. They shared a baffled look.

Dorian hesitated, and Elayne couldn’t be sure, but it seemed almost as if his expression shifted subtly, shuttering. He was still smiling, still jovial, but a small _something_ had changed.

“Why, I meant you finally figured out that you had to _lock your doors_ throughout the day against unwanted Orlesian guests,” he said, reaching out to jiggle the handle in demonstration. “And since you are hale and hearty without a single scratch on you, I must assume you managed it without starting any exciting new blood feuds.”

Cullen let out an aggravated breath; Elayne just laughed. “Are your admirers _really_ coming to your door?” she teased.

“By the droves. I think they must be _encouraged_ by firm refusals,” he muttered. “I can see no other blasted reason why they’d even bother.”

“My dear Cullen,” Dorian tsked as Cullen produced a key from his fur-lined robe, “I will never understand how a man who looks like _you_ has such a weak passing familiarity with vanity. Wouldn’t you agree, Elayne?”

But she wasn’t paying attention; her eyes were focused on the key. The _key_. Varric had given her a _key_. How had he described the room to which it led? Little and out of the way…warm…with a _bed_.

Oh, Maker.

Dorian cleared his throat pointedly, and Cullen snorted. “Don’t make the Inquisitor perjure herself on _my_ account, Dorian,” he said. “Unlike you, my vanity is not a cat in need of constant attention.”

“I’m sorry? Oh!” she said, hand flying to her mouth to cover a laugh as she mentally replayed the conversation. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Cullen. Yes, of course, you are a _very_ handsome man.”

“Yes, Elayne, and I am _sure_ your delayed response makes him feel it.” Nobody could do arch disapproval like Dorian—not even Vivienne was his match.

“I truly _am_ sorry,” Elayne said earnestly, but Cullen waved her concern away with a small, crooked smile. “My mind was just wandering to, ah, something I just remembered I must do.”

Dorian snorted. “Fly away, little sparrow,” he said, reaching out to tweak one of her curls. “Cullen, if _you_ have the attention to spare…”

Elayne backed away as Dorian and Cullen filed into his tower. “Thank you. Sorry again,” she added quickly—she wasn’t going to stop feeling twinges of guilt over that for a while, she knew, even if Cullen didn’t seem bothered by her rudeness—before spinning on her heel and bolting. She gave into impulse and jumped down to the landing below before hopping the last few feet to the ground in a way that gave some of the men fits. The wind felt good, _bracing_ , against her cheeks, lifting loose blond curls with each gust as she sprinted toward Cassandra’s usual perch.

She slowed as she neared the tavern, however, coloring at the sight of it. It was strange how easily she could sometimes compartmentalize the Elayne she was every day and the Elayne she was with him. That Elayne was bold, daring. She didn’t worry about anything but her own pleasure—her sense of self was as indomitable as Vivienne’s.

Now, stealing almost shy glances at the tavern, _this_ Elayne was blushing pink at the memory of what they’d done. Had she _really_ almost had sex out in the open, only just out of sight of patrons in the tavern? Of _Maryden?_

…oh Andraste, she’d never be able to meet Maryden’s eyes again. And Maker only knew what kinds of thoughts _Cole_ was hearing.

She ducked her head and hurried past the tavern, a thrilled-embarrassed laugh rising in her chest. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the key, still there after all this time, glancing once over her shoulder before stopping before the small, utterly inconspicuous door and sliding it into the lock.

The small _click_ sent a secret thrill through her.

Elayne pushed open the door, stepping inside. “Hello?” she called, nudging the door shut with her hip. The main room was dark, empty but for the supplies stacked on neat shelves. There was a door at the far end of the room that would lead to where requisitions were logged; this place must be used for additional storage. She drifted past rows of dried rations and medical supplies, tents, banners—silent as a ghost. There was a stairway to the right of the room that led up to a loft; she trailed up it, led by mingled excitement and curiosity. It was always a thrill to realize there were secrets she had not yet coaxed out of Skyhold—new rooms she had somehow managed to miss, new treasures to be discovered.

She felt, in a way, like Solas must every time he ventured into the Fade. If she listened, she could hear the whole Keep whispering to her, telling her stories of ages past, of ancient glory and lives she could only imagine.

The old wood creaked as she crested the stairs, and her breathless laugh was loud in the delicious quiet. The room was small and just as cozy as Varric had promised. The roof was vaulted, a skylight letting in warm striations of sunlight. They crossed the rug-covered floor and large, low bed. New sheets and a deep red blanket had been left folded at the foot of the bed, along with two stripped pillows. A pile of familiar-looking books sat waiting patiently on the bedside table, next to a full bottle of fine Kirkwall red.

Varric had left her presents; Varric was her _favorite._

She impulsively toed off her shoes and moved across the floor on bare feet, toes digging against the homey braided rugs. Heat would rise from the fireplace down below, she could see, coming in through the single lofted wall. Starlight would shine down from up above.

Elayne flopped back onto the stripped bed, sprawling inelegantly and arching like a cat beneath the sunlight. It was glorious— _perfect_ —and if she closed her eyes against the kiss of light, she could imagine bringing Marcus here. Taking his hand and tugging him up the steps. Pushing his coat down his arms until it hit the floor with a soft _fwump_. Kissing him—always, always kissing him—as she unbuttoned his vest, his shirt, his trousers, stripping him and finally getting her hands all over the hard planes of his muscular body.

“Maker, please,” she murmured, one hand dragging down the soft curve of her belly and _slowly_ teasing along the waist of her beige finery. She was thrumming with remembered heat, with _anticipation_ , and it took all her incredible willpower not to slip her hand beneath the waist and brush her fingers through slick curls…

_Tonight_ , Elayne told herself, tense with longing, staring up at the skylight and wishing with everything she had that the sun had already set and she could be with him now. _It will happen tonight._

If she only had one night left with him…she planned to make it a memorable one.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incredible art by the amazing http://noimnotevensorry.tumblr.com/ Go check out their tumblr and tell them how awesome they are!

Bravado didn't last long.

Elayne hesitated, palm pressed against the ancient wooden door, listening to the roar of music and voices and laughter separated from her by a scant few inches of oak. The cacophony echoed through all of Skyhold, thrumming through stone and seeping down into the very earth itself. She could feel it rushing through her blood; her pulse tripped along with its rhythm. In three weeks, four, would she still be able to hear its echo whispered up from the belly of the keep?

Would Solas’s dreams be filled with dancing?

She dropped her head forward to rest against the door, nervous and elated, and let her eyes drift closed. She could feel the thrum of energy; or was that her pulse? Maker, she was acting like such a coward.

“I’m not ready for this,” she murmured to herself. She felt…she wasn’t sure how she felt. It seemed to change by the moment. Powerful. Ridiculous. Sexual. Scared. Every time she thought she’d managed to pin down her emotions, they would move into freefall and she would be lost again.

And she was losing time.

That was the worst of it, Elayne thought desperately—that was the real reason she was frozen here, steps away from the ball, too afraid to open the door and too terrified to turn and go back to her room. She could feel the ticking clock winding down, and there was a part of her that couldn’t help but wonder…would it hurt less if she denied them both this last night together? Would saying goodbye be easier if she cut ties before they could finish forming?

_Coward. Coward._

She turned, pressing back against the door, and tipped her head to stare up at the huge vaulted ceiling. It hurt to breathe. Thinking about him out there, waiting for her, _hoping_ … 

How long would he wait?

How long before he turned away, disappointed, disgusted?

He’d hate her so much for breaking her word and running away again—for good, this time. Or would he? Was this…dalliance even important to him? Was she just forcing her own tumultuous emotions onto a situation she wasn’t equipped to handle?

Elayne could close Fade rifts and fight demons. She could stand toe-to-toe with ancient magisters and bait red Templars. She could cut a bloody swath through Venatori mages and sit around a campfire after, laughing with her friends. But here, now, she felt paralyzed with fear and desire. She felt…

She felt helplessly out of her depth. How had this _happened_? 

She pressed her palms against the door and pushed away, moving grimly toward the steps leading back to her room. This had been a mistake from the beginning. She’d started this farce wanting to know what it was like to be free, but the whole stupid affair had managed to make her feel even more caged than before. Pretending to be someone she wasn’t just made her _ache_ for what she knew she couldn’t have, for someone she knew she couldn’t—

She _couldn’t_ —

In the Grand Hall, the music died, and in the silence between one song and the next, there came the steady toll of bells.

_One. Two. Three._

He would be looking for her. He’d be afraid she was lost in the crowd.

_Four. Five. Six._

Or maybe…maybe he would have realized by now she wasn’t to be found. Maybe he’d know she’d chosen not to come.

_Seven. Eight. Nine._

He’d be standing alone, buffeted by the crowd, feeling…what? What would he be feeling?

_Ten._

Could it be even a shadow of what she, herself, was feeling right now, at the thought of spending another minute without him?

_Eleven._

“Maker take me,” Elayne murmured, suddenly whirling back and sprinting the last few steps to the door. She slammed through it just as the music began again, rushing head-first from the dim of her stairway to the vibrant excess of the ball, heart hammering in her chest, fear immediately going cold and still inside her…then slowly dying away as she ascended the dais to scan the crowd. 

Her decision was made. Maybe there had been no real question to begin with—she was here and she would find him, and she would spend every last moment she could soaking in this stolen life all because of the way he made her feel. Because she liked who she was when they were alone together. And if she was out of her depth, well. She’d figure it out. She always did.

Slowly, Elayne’s shoulders straightened and her chin lifted. Her frantic heartbeat began to slow. She took a step forward, framed by stained glass images of herself, and swept her gaze across the gathered ball, aware of scores of eyes beginning to turn toward her as if she were true north.

A slow murmur began to build.

…on the third night of the ball, all eyes were upon her. Elayne felt the charge of the court’s attention flick over her skin. She felt both vulnerable and powerful at once, meeting their curious, shocked gazes in open defiance. A susurrus whisper rose as the seconds ticked by, spreading through the Grand Hall like the hungry tongue of an open flame.

Tonight, she was the lady in red.

She’d left the corset, her breastband and smalls shed like a cocoon on her bedroom floor, choosing instead the freedom of nothing but silk against bare skin. Each breath was a revelation, taut nipples dragging across slippery fabric, a secret heat already gathering between her thighs as men, women, _everyone_ watched her.

The dress was a deep red silk in the Rivaini style, clasped by intricate golden knots at her shoulders. It flowed from there in sumptuous spills of cloth, draping almost shockingly low across her full breasts and even further down her back, revealing the delicate knobs of her spine to the lush curve of her ass. Delicate golden chains ran up both front and back, but they did little more than to emphasize the sheer amount of _skin_ she was so brazenly baring. When she moved, the skirt’s high slits showed tantalizing flashes of thigh. This was not a dress intended to be worn by the shy or the modest or the chaste.

Tonight she was temptation itself.

“By the Maker,” someone nearby murmured, answered by, “ _Who is she?_ ”

Elayne tilted her chin, eyes sweeping the staring crowd. There were no sleeves on this dress—just the same delicate golden chains brushing over her skin in a teasing caress. Her mass of black curls were loose, framing a golden mask as supple as kid leather; matching tooled golden cuffs curved around her hands in half-gloves, hiding the mark, and soft golden slippers that whispered across the floor.

When she stepped forward, those nearest her stepped _back_ as if she were made of flame. _This is what a desire demon must feel like_ , Elayne thought with a wry twist of her reddened lips; she moved down into the crowd with her head held high, _daring_ anyone to comment.

Eyes followed her; whispers fell like rustling leaves in her wake.

And suddenly, pushing through the last of the crowd with a stunned, _shattered_ look on his face, was Marcus. He was in the same dark blue coat as before, silver mask covering all but his expressive mouth and beautiful eyes, but she could read him as easily as if his features had been laid bare. His lips were parted, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, and his gaze raked hungrily over her even as he came to a stop before her. A single dark auburn curl fell across the silver of his mask, making him look deliciously ruffled, rumpled. She wanted to sink her fingers into his hair and drag him in for a biting kiss.

“Maker’s breath,” he murmured, sounding utterly unlike himself for a moment—sounding so like _Ser Cullen_ that Elayne actually jerked her gaze to his mouth, searching out the hint of a scar. Andraste preserve her, was it really… But no, no, there was no scar, and when he reached out his hand and said, “I have _never_ seen anyone more beautiful in my life,” his accent was right again.

She must have heard him wrong. The blood was rushing in her ears and her heart was nearly pounding out of her chest; it was as simple as that.

Elayne wet her lips—loving the way his eyes dragged down to follow the brush of her tongue—and reached out to take his hand. The air was already supercharged around them, so thick with shared desire it was almost like wading into a stream. When her fingers closed over his, he impulsively tightened his grip, and she knew—she _knew_ , reading it in the way his eyes dilated wide—that if all the court hadn’t been watching with baited breath, he would have hauled her bodily into his arms to ravage her mouth.

She sucked in an unsteady breath, breasts rising and falling fast, straining against the slippery silk. She could feel that answering heat unspooling in her belly, between her thighs; she squeezed her legs together and shivered at the secret throb hidden there.

She wanted his hands on her. She wanted his fingers, his tongue, thrusting inside her cunt, wanted him to push between her thighs and move _hard_ into her waiting body. She wanted _so much_. And he wanted her too; she didn’t need to drop her gaze to know his cock was straining against the tight leather of his trousers. Maker, the things she was going to do with this man. She was so glad she hadn’t let fear defeat her.

…but first, she wanted one last dance to remember this strange, dazzling chapter in her life by. She let her lips curve into a small smile and murmured, “Marcus—ask me to dance.”

His grip on her fingers tightened again; he reeled her in closer, scanning her face. “Please tell me you are joking,” Marcus murmured.

“Do I look like I am joking?”

He let out an unsteady breath. “You look like _sin_. I won’t be able to keep my hands off of you.”

Elayne pressed closer, loving the way his whole body went stiff, _taut_ , as if he were wrestling desperately with his self-control. He swallowed again, lips parted on a heavy breath; she almost swore she could feel the heat of his body rising through layers of cloth. It made her want to sway into it, into _him_ —arch up against the hard planes of his chest in a mindless, wanton rut. She was already dripping wet, bare thighs slipping together, and the thought of being pressed close through the steps of a dance, of baiting the lion she could sense coiled and hungry inside him…

She leaned closer, her other hand lifting to slide across the soft nub of his velvet coat, dragging along his shoulder. “Does it seem like I _want_ you to keep your hands to yourself?” Elayne murmured, wickedly soft.

Marcus actually growled, grabbing her around the waist. There was an echo of gasps as he yanked her body against his—and only the awareness of so many eyes on them kept Elayne from grinding her hips along the hard, _hard_ , jut of his cock. Her breath came in helpless little pants.

“Demon,” he hissed, hand splayed across her bare back. “All right; I’ll pay your price.”

She gave an unsteady nod, so beyond her experience that she was stumbling blind even as she baited him. The music seemed very far away; the crowd of whispering, deliciously scandalized spectators were like ghosts. There was nothing but this man’s eyes on her, this man’s hand spanning her body, this man’s hips pushing forward, driving her back an unsteady step as he led her blindly into the dance.

Her legs were shaky. She trembled at the feel of him—the flex of his powerful muscles and the way he gripped her, moved her, controlled her slowly melting body as they fell into the steps. Elayne closed her eyes, feeling his hot breath against her upturned face. They were pressed far too close for polite society, and there was something achingly _possessive_ about the way he held her.

He tipped his face even closer. “I thought of you all day, all night,” he murmured; his voice was like raw silk. “I couldn’t stop picturing the way you looked as you rose over me, straddling my waist. The way your head tipped back…the delicate line of your throat.”

Marcus reached up, fingers dragging across her skin, and tipped up her jaw. Higher. _Higher_ , until she was baring her throat in instinctive surrender. Elayne bit her lip, barely swallowing a cry when calloused fingertips brushed down her neck and scraped across the exposed wing of her collarbone. She stumbled into the next step of the dance, breasts heaving with each hard, panting breath.

There was a murmur from the crowd.

“I had to sit there, after you left,” he continued as if he weren’t completely unmaking her. His own steps were steady, self-assured, with only the husk in his voice and the tremble of his fingers giving him away. “For what felt like _hours_. Every time I thought I’d gotten my body under control again, I would picture you—your bodice sagging, your perfect breasts tumbling free, your lips parted and eyes closed as I sank my fingers into your heat—”

“ _Unfair_ ,” Elayne whined, nearly stumbling again. It was all she could do to keep her wobbly knees from giving out, blood running _hot_ at the image he was painting. 

He gave a harsh, barking laugh, spinning her in time with the music. She had to close her eyes, head reeling, pulse racing. When he caught her against his body, the scaldingly hot drag of his erection made her see stars. “ _Unfair?_ No. Unfair is teasing me. Unfair is climbing under my skin so all I think about all day is kissing you, touching you, _tasting_ you. Unfair is— Is making me _want_ you the way I have never wanted anyone or anything in my life.”

Marcus pulled them to a hard stop, one arm like iron around her middle, the other a band across her bare back, fingers digging into her dark spill of curls. His eyes were nearly black, rimmed by gold. His breath was harsh against her upturned face.

“You are a madness, and I don’t know whether to hate you for driving me to this or love you for…for being _you_.” He gave a rasping bark of laughter. “And I don’t even know who you _are_. I just know I need you.”

“ _Please_ ,” Elayne gasped, arms flung around his neck. She was dizzy with relief and fear and an undeniable _thrill_ of joy. “I want you too. I love— I care— I—” Now _she_ was the one unable to find the words. “ _Please_. I beg you.”

He studied her, eyes sweeping across her face as if trying to read all her secrets there. “My lady,” he said roughly, hand cupping the back of her skull so heart-breakingly gentle. “You never need beg. Don’t you realize by now you can have anything you wish of me for the asking?” And then, before she could do more than gasp in a glad breath, his mouth was on hers.

…and the Grand Hall erupted into enthusiastic applause.

They jerked apart immediately, shocked back into themselves, and shared an utterly _horrified_ look…before bursting into only slightly hysterical laughter. Elayne covered her mouth, giggling madly, watching as the color flared up Marcus’s cheeks. His ears were bright red and he was ducking his face as if he could hide against the curve of her neck, arms tightening around her. On all sides, the thrice-damned Orlesian court cheered and gossiped and watched them as if they were a mummer’s farce.

“Oh Andraste’s tits,” she whispered to Marcus, barely able to talk past the mortified fit of giggles, “we really _are_ going to be the stars of some devastating sex poem.”

“May the Maker shield us from such a fate.” He lifted his head to meet her eyes again. “Can we…sound a strategic retreat?”

“ _Please_.” She pulled back, heart winging in her chest when he didn’t immediately seem willing to let her go, and took one of his hands in hers. Then, feeling ridiculous yet daring, she gave a little half-hearted curtsy to the court—before firmly tugging Marcus toward the doors. “Follow me,” she said as they wove their way through a flurry of colorful silks and feathers and mostly good-natured laughter. Her cheeks felt hot, but she focused on those doors as if they were a fade rift. Together, they went tumbling through the crowd and out into the chilly night air; cheers followed them down the steps and across new-fallen slow.

Marcus tugged at her hand before they had gone three steps across the snowdrift, however. “Wait,” he said when Elayne tried to plow on. “You’re…barely dressed. And while I truly appreciate the effect, you need to—” He tugged her to a stop and began trying to unbutton his coat.

She whirled around, fingers gripping his tight. She didn’t feel the cold; she was living flame, she was desire personified. “I know where we can go. It’s close,” she promised, stopping him before he could undo the silver buttons. “It’s warm. It’s…private.” Elayne took a breath, meeting his eyes. The snow fell around them, silvery-pale and delicate. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” he breathed, without hesitation. “I do.”

 _Maker_ , that shouldn’t make her heart ache the way it did. “Then follow me,” she said, leaning in on the balls of her feet to brush their lips together—and then whirling away toward Varric’s little hideaway before the kiss could inevitably become something more, excitement mounting with each step they took.

 _Finally_ , the echo of her heartbeat seemed to say. _Finally, finally, finally._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to God, I kept thinking "+10 court approval" while I was writing this and giggling to myself. That's how it's done, Grand Duchess!


	14. Chapter 14

Marcus hesitated when they reached the storage room door, already unlocked from earlier in the evening. He followed her inside but froze just past the threshold, broad shoulders filling it up, silver mask catching the dim light.

“Should we…be here?” he said in a slow, awkward tone of voice. The internal conflict was clear in the stiff line of his body. She may not have known him long, but she knew down to her core that his instincts were warring between a healthy respect for the rules and a desire to act. He reminded her almost painfully of some of her friends that way. Her advisors.

It was bizarre how easily he could fit in with the rest of the Inquisition if she just allowed herself to think like that.

Elayne had to turn away to hide her bittersweet smile. If they really were Marcus and Jenny, guests to the Inquisition, then no. No, they absolutely should not have trespassed here. But as Inquisitor, the entire Keep was hers to roam.

“I’d wondered that too,” she murmured, heading deeper inside the room. She crouched by the fireplace with its logs already stacked and grabbed the tinderbox. Elayne pretended to draw a spark, angling her body to hide the flare of magic she coaxed into the dry kindling. “But it’s all right—one of the Inquisition’s men said I could come here earlier in the day.” She half-turned, still crouched before the growing fire. Its heat licked across her skin, warring with the cold wind blowing through the still-open door. “Sometimes I just like to get away from everyone. Sometimes I just need to…”

She trailed off, eyes dropping.

Marcus stepped inside and quietly shut the door behind him. “Sometimes you just need to escape,” he murmured. At her low noise, he added, “I can tell. Looking at you, I mean. There’s something about you that’s… I can just tell.”

_You know me,_ she didn’t dare say. Funny that it took donning a mask to be seen so clearly.

“Tonight I feel freer than I have in a long time,” Elayne said, rising. She shivered at the feel of the silk dragging across bare skin, stoking the fire deep inside. There was still a part of her that was frightened—of what was to come, of what would happen after, of how she’d manage to piece together the shattered parts of her when she was alone again. But she shoved aside that fear and lifted her chin, holding on to the brazen courage that had seen her this far; she’d made her choice when she’d run head-first into the ballroom. There was no going back. “I can’t say why, but I always feel that way with you. It’s why I’m here now.”

“Jenny,” he began, moving restlessly toward her—then frowned, stopping midway across the room. “But it isn’t really Jenny, is it? Maker’s breath, I _hate_ not knowing your name. Your face. I’ve been driving myself crazy these last few days, worrying that this all may end and I wouldn’t be able to find you again. I have to tell you— You have to know— _Words_ ,” Marcus groaned, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I had it all planned out in my head, but of course, _of course_ now that it’s time to talk, I can’t seem to get it out.” He let out a heavy breath and spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

“Marcus,” she began.

“That isn’t my name,” he said. “It all seemed so easy at first. I’d wear a mask. I’d adopt a false name. I’d let down my guard and ‘live a little’.” The way he said those words, she could practically hear the air quotes—could imagine some friend coaxing Marcus into trying this the way Sera had coaxed her. “But the funny thing about letting down one’s guard is that it leaves you vulnerable. And I’ve— I’ve never done well with being vulnerable.”

Her heart was pounding painfully fast. She ached for him, for the stark plea in his eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you,” Elayne said, “but what you’re asking—”

“I love you.” 

Silence. Utter, complete silence, as if all sound had been sucked from the room. Elayne stood frozen, one hand half-lifted to her throat as she met Marcus’s eyes across the narrow distance separating them. Her world was caught in a moment, shocked-still. In freefall.

He _loved_ her?

She sucked in a breath, and that hard sound seemed to be enough to bring the world crashing back in an avalanche of sensation. She felt the heat of the fire against her back, heard the pop of flames and the whisper of snow at the windows. She felt cool silk against her body and the weight of his eyes as he watched her warily, as if trying to gauge her reaction.

Maker, what _was_ her reaction?

“You love me,” Elayne breathed.

He closed his eyes. “It sounds so stupid out loud. I realize I barely know you, but it feels like I’ve been falling in love with you from the moment I first saw you. It has been…a very, very long time since I felt so free in my own emotions. I suppose there’s something to be said for being vulnerable after all. Or maybe it’s the end of the world. Or maybe I’ve just…gotten better, healed, without ever really noticing.” He raked his fingers through his hair, pacing restlessly like a caged lion. There was real power in the way he moved—power and strength and a strange sort of beauty. She wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch him. “I _don’t know_. All I know is I can’t get you out of my head, and I can’t stand the idea that tomorrow I might lose you forever.”

“ _Marcus_.”

“ _Isn’t_ my name,” he growled, whirling on her. It _should_ have been frightening, but everything inside Elayne _thrilled_ when he stalked close, bootheels drumming against the worn floorboards, and took her hands in his. His eyes were blazing but his grip was gentle, softening even further at the feel of her trembling like a bird in his cupped palm. “But what I’m trying to say—badly—is that this _is_ me. These last three nights, I’ve been more myself than I have been in years. You make me feel like myself again, my old, good self, and I want to— I can’t _bear_ the idea of you disappearing again. Please.” He turned her hands over, thumbs running lightly over the palms. His head was tipped toward hers, eyes locked so that she couldn’t bring herself to turn away, and oh, the earnestness in his expression was stealing her breath. The…love. Maker, the love. Could it possibly be real? “Tell me who you are and I will spend my life fighting to be good enough for you.”

She was in one of Varric’s beautiful stories; she was in a living fairy tale. Elayne closed her eyes, feeling the hot prick of tears on her lashes, the overwhelming surge of emotion. She wanted to tell him. She wanted to believe that the love he was feeling—that, Maker take her, _both_ of them were feeling—was real. She wanted to believe there could be a happily ever after for her.

She opened her mouth to tell him _yes_ …and faltered.

_What will happen when he finds out you’re the Inquisitor?_ an insidious part of her whispered. _Will he be willing to love the Herald? Or will piety turn him aside?_

Would he even be able to see her as a woman, once he knew? Some could not. Or, even worse, would some part of him _thrill_ at the idea of being by the side of the Herald of Andraste? Would he touch her, kiss her, and be seeing the Maker through her? Disturbingly, there were some who felt that way too.

He seemed so warm, so genuine. So _real_. The dream was so beautiful; could she risk letting it shatter by sharing too much of herself?

“Marcus,” she began, hesitatingly.

“You’re going to say no,” he said.

She bit her lip at the masked pain in his voice. _I love you, I love you, I love you. Maker take pity on me, how did this happen?_ “I need to think about it more. Coming to this ball—it was just supposed to be about finding someone I found attractive and losing myself in them for a time. Physically. I never expected to find you, and now that I have…” She took a breath and gently pulled her hands away. “I’m confused. I’m still sorting everything out. But I’m not…saying _no_. Just _not yet_. Give me a few hours to figure it all out.”

“I can live with that,” he murmured. Slowly—achingly slow—he reached up to brush his knuckles over the gold of her mask. “I have to, don’t I? Tell me your rules and I will do my utmost to follow them. I would do whatever you told me for just a…a _taste_ of you.”

Elayne shivered, nuzzling into the caress. Then, very deliberately, she took a step back, then another. “All right. Follow me,” she said—and led him up the creaking steps to the loft. It was time to put all that simmering tension between them to its ultimate end.

She’d made the bed, red coverlet folded back, and hidden Varric’s books. The wine was on ice, two glasses ready and waiting for the carefree evening she had spent the afternoon imagining. The glow from the fire below filled the room with golden warmth, and the starlight shone down silvery-blue from the skylight. The two competing palettes made him seem like a creature of legend as he paused to take everything in. Gold and silver and warmth and ice and everything she ever, ever wanted.

“Was this meant for, ah, us?” he asked, looking around.

She bit her lip and nodded, watching his expression as best she could for a reaction. The heaviness of his confession—his plea—was still strong in the air, thrumming through them like the lingering effects of a lightning chain. Awareness danced over her restless skin; it made her heart pound.

Maker, he was so handsome. And he _loved_ her.

“I wanted somewhere we could be alone,” Elayne murmured. “Last night was wonderful—I’ll cherish the memory forever—but it was a little, um…”

His lips twitched. “A little full of spectators?”

“Chock-full of them,” she said with a throaty laugh. “I thought tonight we could try it again without the crowd. If you were willing.”

His gaze dropped behind her, then back, the hunger from before—never fully banked between them—gleaming in his eyes. He took a measured step forward, the metal on his dark tunic clinking. “There appears to be a bed this time.”

Her pulse was fluttering in her throat, making it almost impossible to breathe. She could actually feel the tension in the air shifting, morphing, taking new shape as his eyes raked boldly down her body. When she dragged in an unsteady breath, her breasts heaved against the scandalously low neckline; her nipples went tight when he touched his tongue to his lower lip, _watching_ her as if…

As if he had to have her, or go mad with wanting.

She moved back a step, toward the bed, feeling the heat unspool low in her belly when he followed, _stalking_ forward with undeniable intent. The drag of her bare thighs together was nearly enough to startle a moan from her. “There’s more than a bed,” Elayne murmured; her voice was unnaturally breathy.

And _his_ husky enough to make her toes curl. “Oh?” Marcus murmured, watching as she subtly toed off her golden slippers, bare feet whisking across the colorful rugs. “What else is there?” She kept moving backward as he advanced—retreating blindly, entire body throwing off sparks—until her calves bumped into the edge of the mattress. Elayne stopped, breath catching, and lifted a hand.

Marcus froze where he was.

Eyes never leaving his, Elayne reached up to brush her thumbs across the golden knots at her shoulders, holding the heavy red silk in place. With a careless flick of her fingers, she undid the clasps, freeing the pins. She blindly tossed them aside.

The dress pooled around her feet in a whisper of silk and chains, leaving her in nothing but the golden-half gloves, a mask, and the dark waterfall of her hair.

“Me,” she said.

The _noise_ he made in response shot through her, sending heat flooding through her core. Elayne sucked in a breath, so very _aware_ of her own nudity in a way she had never been before—of her body bathed in silver light from above and golden from below, cast in warring duality that could have been a metaphor, but… But… But, Maker, it was hard to think when Marcus was looking at her like that.

She wet her lips, swaying in place; black curls fell around the lush curves of her less-than-perfect frame. She was no Leliana, lithe and elfin. She was no Cassandra, trim and beautifully athletic. She was pale skin and generous curves—hips flaring, breasts heavy, body soft. And in this, her first time being naked with a man, Elayne couldn’t help the flutter of fear deep in her gut: _Will he want me? Will he like what he sees?_

She needn’t have worried.

“Maker’s breath,” Marcus breathed, sounding utterly stunned— _gutted_ , as if the mere sight of her was enough to leave him shaken to the core. He took another step forward, then another, gaze sweeping hungrily down her body in a way that left heat pricking in its wake; she shivered, gooseflesh rising up her arms. “You are…I don’t have the words for what you are. I don’t know if the words have even been invented yet.”

Elayne swallowed, body drawn tight in response. Her cunt ached, and she squeezed her thighs together, restless and wanting and so very, very exposed.

All of her. He was seeing all of her—and he _wanted her_. That, more than anything, was what quieted the whispering fears.

“Then why don’t you show me instead?” she said, as daring as she could. She reached out to take one of his hands when he stopped inches before her, lifting it to brush her lips across his calloused fingertips. Her lashes flickered as she dropped her gaze, then slowly, slowly raised it again to meet his eyes. They were dilated hugely. They were locked on her with rapt attention.

_Heat_ burned between them, sizzling with promise. Each brush of her lips across his fingers made her think of them spanning her breasts, sliding down the slope of her stomach…slipping past her slick folds to thrust deep inside her body.

_Please_ , Elayne thought, breath coming in light pants, lips brushing over the pad of his index finger. She was electrified with the feeling that any moment he might break—might grab her close to him and bring his mouth down on hers in a hungry demand. Maker, the thought of that, the reality of being naked while he was still fully clothed, thrummed through her in hot, aching waves.

_Take me_ , she thought, blue eyes on gold. _Please, please take me_. She parted her lips and snaked the very tip of her tongue across the salty pad of his finger, followed by the delicate scrape of her teeth.

Marcus’s shoulders jerked in response and he _growled_ again, low in his chest. And then, all at once, his iron control was broken. Elayne gasped when he suddenly grabbed her around the waist, _hauling_ her up against the hard planes of his body. Her bare skin brushed along the velvet of his coat, fingers digging into muscular shoulders as she scrabbled for purchase. He’d pulled her up to his height, forcing her to rise up on to balls of her feet, vulnerable, shuddering; his face was a breath away from hers, and his eyes… She’d never seen a look like that in a man’s eyes before. It made her feel powerful and powerless all at once—trembling and _wet_ and ready to be taken. “It’s dangerous to tease me,” he murmured. She could feel each word hot against her upturned face.

“You’re not going to hurt me,” Elayne said. She arched, hips restlessly pushing forward. He had her bound tight to him by an arm like an iron band. The undeniable jut of his erection pressed against her belly, so very hot. She wanted— She wanted—

She wanted _him_. Everything he would give her.

“No,” he murmured, free hand sinking into her hair. He gripped dark curls tight, pulling just hard enough that she was forced to submit, to bare her throat in a long, sinuous line. Her breasts dragged along his chest and her cunt _throbbed_ in response to the delicious pressure. When he oh-so lightly brushed his lips down the arc of her neck, she had to close her eyes on a gasp. “I’d never hurt you. But before tonight is through, I _am_ going to make you beg.”

“ _Maker_.” Her legs nearly gave out, knees turned to water; Marcus caught her against him with a gravely chuckle. He dragged his teeth along the join of her neck and shoulder, tongue tracing the faint marks before moving down, down…across the delicate wings of her collarbone, over the heaving tops of her breasts.

“Marcus,” she breathed, and he looked up again, light catching on his mask.

“No names here,” he said. “Not until they’re real. I need this to be real.”

She gave a faint nod—then shivered when he cupped her jaw and licked into her mouth as if he could take that name back and swallow it whole. Instead, he swallowed the soft noise she made, tongue brushing hers in a slow, unbearably sweet glide that sent sparks skittering across her vision. Elayne closed her eyes, arms going around his neck, and kissed back with everything she had.

Kissing Marcus was like nothing she had ever experienced before. It echoed through her in shockwaves, making her hitch her hips and writhe against him as it went on and on and on. The cold of metal bit against her flushed skin, and she was reminded again—couldn’t possibly forget—that he was dressed while she was bare. The imbalance of that was its own sort of delicious tease, making her moan as their tongues twined.

One of his hands dropped between them to cup the weight of her breast. His thumbnail rasped along the clench of a nipple, and that—that simple act—was enough to make Elayne buck and whimper against his mouth. He bit at her lower lip and tugged it just shy of too sharp, smiling at her ragged noise.

“Feel good?” he murmured, circling her tight nipple again and again.

“I feel,” she began, but she didn’t have the words to explain how she felt. There was a tempo to her arching hips, a rhythm slowly beginning to build that Marcus seemed to sense instinctively. He followed the pulsing of her blood with delicate flicks against the tighttighttight peak of her breast, with sudden teeth scoring the thrust of her tongue. Elayne whined deep in her throat, hyperaware of the slickness of her thighs and the open, empty _ache_ there. “Tight inside,” she finally managed on a shudder. “ _Oh_.”

He kissed her one last time, languorous, _wet_ , then stoked his tongue along her full bottom lip. She tipped her head back with a weak sigh as he peppered delicate kisses down her jaw, her neck, teeth raking across pale skin only to be followed by the hot swipe of that tongue. Each time the tip searched out her pulse—beneath her jaw, at the hollow of her throat—a tight clench of need would send sparks through her. She was shifting restlessly now, grabbing his other hand to drag it to her breast and pushing up into his teasing grip. She overflowed even his broad palms, and the roughness of his callouses (from swordplay?) were enough to steal fractured, panting breaths.

Maker, she was going to die with want.

…and then he was sinking lower and she very nearly crumpled with him, struggling to keep herself upright as his grip loosened and his hands slid along the curve of her body, swiping possessively across her flanks. He licked over the delicate arch of her collarbone, then down, tongue trailing across soft skin before swirling around the impossibly tight clench of her nipple.

“Ah!” she gasped, grabbing at his hair. She could feel the cold of his mask against her breasts, the gusting heat of his breath, and the twin sensation was nearly enough to drive her mad. She twisted up toward his mouth, shuddering hard when he caught the peak of her breast against his tongue and began to _suck_.

It felt…she wasn’t sure she had the words for how it felt. It was nothing she had ever experienced. She had touched herself before, explored her own body and her desires, but the heat of a tongue swirling against pebbled flesh, the deep ache that spread through her at each tug, the strange connection she felt between breast and cunt as if the two were bound together in some unexplored way… It almost hurt it felt so good. Elayne’s grip tightened and she sobbed in a completely wrecked breath as he gently (gently, gently) raked his teeth along the tight pucker of flesh…and moved to her other breast with a low moan.

His stubble rasped against soft skin. Could she come from this? Maker, she didn’t know—she never even thought to wonder, but now, it was all she could think about. Just unraveling before him, dissolving into waves of pleasure at the hot swipe of his clever tongue. She squirmed and writhed and panted, dull throb of her clit echoing the teasing pulls of his mouth, even as his hands swept over her in frank adoration. 

There was no fear now whether he found her desirable; the _noise_ he made as he caught her nipple again between his teeth was enough answer. She’d never felt more beautiful, more wanted—not even dressed in one of Josephine and Leliana’s beautiful gowns, all eyes on her. That didn’t hold a candle to the way she felt now, thrumming with pleasure, hyperaware of his desire for her, wanting—

Marcus’s hand slid down her hip, calloused fingertips teasing along the folds of her sex.

“ _Oh!_ ” Elayne gasped, eyes flying wide. She jerked in his arms, _staring_ as Marcus rumbled a groan and left her heaving breasts to kiss his way down the slope of her belly—tongue flickering against the divot of her belly button—and the arch of her hipbones as he sank gracefully to his knees before her. His auburn head was _right there_ ; his hands moved to frame her hips as if she were something unbearably precious.

When he looked up through his lashes, the wicked heat in his eyes was almost enough to undo her utterly.

“I’ve been thinking of this for days,” he admitted in a low husk. He slid rough thumbs oh-so gently along the slick, bare core of her, teasing at the folds of her cunt. “I’ve been thinking of you, non-stop. What you’d feel like. What you’d sound like.” He leaned in and, eyes never leaving hers, slowly dragged the very tip of his tongue along her slit in an excruciating tease. “What you’d taste like.”

Her breath was coming in harsh, desperate little pants. She was swaying above him, drunk with anticipation, excitement building moment by moment. It was is if the sight of him on his knees had set some mechanical contraption in motion—she could _feel_ the pleasure winding itself tighttighttight deep in her belly like the grinding of gears. “It’s not going to take much to make me beg,” Elayne admitted; her voice was so throaty, she barely recognized it. “Andraste take me, I want you so badly.”

He closed his eyes at that. Then, slowly, Marcus hooked his thumbs into the wet folds of her body and spread her open for him. She could _feel_ his breath gusting against her throbbing clit, could feel all of her tremble and quake with need as slowly—

Slowly—

_Agonizingly_ slowly—

—Marcus leaned close and brushed the flat of his tongue along the deepest part of her.

“ _Oh!_ ” Elayne cried, stumbling. She caught herself against his still-clothed shoulders, bent helplessly over him as she rested her weight on her arms, legs threatening to give out. Marcus swirled his tongue languidly around her clit, then began tasting her in earnest. It felt— Maker, there were no words for how it felt. The hot, liquid glide of his tongue, the way he gripped her hips tight, the _noise_ he made deep in his throat, as if he wanted this as much as she did…

She dug her nails into the soft nub of his velvet coat, panting and riding the strokes of his tongue with tiny jerks of her hips. She could feel the warning tightness building deep inside of her, the sense that—oh Maker, oh _Maker_ —she was going to come flying apart at any moment. She sucked in a breath and tried to hold on…so open, so vulnerable, so…

“I, _please_ , please,” she begged, beginning to crumple as her legs gave out. Marcus caught her with one strong arm around her waist, and suddenly the world was blurring dizzily as he swung her up—fuck, so strong—into his arms…and then down amongst sheets so cool against fever-flushed skin.

She sprawled, black curls spilling around her artlessly, back arching in a tight bow as he moved over her—big enough to block out the starlight, lips slick with her come, expression beautifully possessive. He kissed her once, hard, before sliding down her body again. When he hooked her thighs over his broad shoulders and spread her wide, all she could do was writhe toward him with staccato pants.

“ _Please! Please!_ ”

She was begging, she was—she was _dissolving_ at each strong lap of his tongue. His thumbs teased along her folds and his mouth closed over her clit, falling into that rhythm— _that rhythm_ —spiraling up from deep inside her. Fuck, she was spread open, she was aching, she was so close, so close, so—

Elayne arched off the bed with a shocked cry as she suddenly came, entire body drawn _tight_ as a bowstring. She felt the hard clench of it followed by a cascade of undulating pleasure. It rippled through her over and over and _over_ again, chased by the heat of his mouth and the clever flick of his tongue.

It felt like she was flying above her own body; her lungs filled with ragged breath.

Oh. _Oh._

And then, slowly, Elayne sank back amongst the already-tangling sheets, breathless and trembling with the aftershocks. Marcus remained where he was, but he turned his face to kiss a quivering thigh, rasp of his stubble stealing another, soft moan from her.

“Oooh,” Elayne breathed, sinking deep into the languid afterglow. When Marcus finally slid up her body to pull her into his arms, she went unresisting, twining around him as if she never wanted to be anywhere else. And really? Why should she? “That was… Thank you.”

It seemed a ridiculous thing to say, but Marcus just kissed the crown of her head, her temples, the soft curve of her golden mask. His body was all coiled muscle beneath far too much fabric, and when she shifted close, she could feel the impatient jut of his erection against her flushed skin.

Elayne sucked in a breath…and rocked her hips against his.

“…demon,” he murmured, voice very thick. There was a smile there too, however, and so much affection— _love_ —that she thought her heart may burst.

“I thought you planned on making me beg,” she teased, flicking open the silver buttons of his coat one by one. “I barely even asked nicely.”

“The night is far from over,” he said on a growl—and then he was rolling over her, big warrior’s body pressing her against the cool sheets, stealing her breath with a hungry kiss.

_This is real_ , Elayne told herself, reaching up to tangle her fingers in his hair as she opened like a flower to the stroke of his tongue. _Whatever else happens, what we have here is real._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, the smut is not over. There's another full chapter of it to (ahem) come.
> 
> Thank you to everyone for your amazing comments! I can honestly say I have never written anything faster, and it is all because of you. <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo many thanks to the awesome, awesome people who held my hand while I was working on this. You guys seriously are the best. <3
> 
> Art in Chapter Six by the incredible Feylen. Visit her tumblr to tell her how amazing she is! http://feylen.tumblr.com/
> 
> Art in Chapter Seven by the incredible Aud-works. Visit her tumblr to shower praise on her! http://aud-works.tumblr.com

Kissing Marcus was like nothing she could have imagined.

Elayne wasn’t entirely without experience. Even as shy as she used to be, back in the Circle, there had been one or two others who had turned her head: A Templar boy who had kissed her behind a bookshelf, who then immediately went out of his way to ignore her until he was transferred to a new post. An instructor who lost his reserve in a moment of academic excitement, scrolls spilling around them as he caught her up in a breathless, forbidden embrace. A fellow mage girl who had cupped her face with both soft hands and shown her how to tilt her head for it, how to stroke her tongue slow and hot and sweet. That had been the longest of her all-too-brief romances, running for almost three weeks before she’d tried to escape one time too many, always wild where Elayne was cautious. The last Elayne had seen her, she’d been enchanting items and keeping the storage room neat, the sun-brand stark against her beautiful dark skin.

Maker, why was she thinking of that now?

She dug her nails into the back of Marcus’s neck, raking them up into his hair as she twined their tongues together. Her body was thrumming with pleasure and his weight was just enough to make her feel tied to the earth, _safe_. What was it about this man that made her feel so good?

He was laying between her thighs, and she could _feel_ him pressing against her. Every time they shifted, every time one of her bare legs hitched higher around his hip, she was oh-so aware of the scalding heat of his erection rocking against her core.

“Maker’s breath,” he said, breaking the kiss. He turned his face away to drag in a serrated breath, hips pushing forward again, again. Elayne whined deep in her throat and tightened her grip on him. He’d already brought her to orgasm with his clever tongue, but she wanted…

She wanted him _inside_ her. She wanted him like nothing she had ever wanted before.

“Is this where I start to beg?” she said, sliding her palms across his broad shoulders. He levered himself up onto one powerful arm to look down at her, eyes dazed, and she did her best to smile seductively. It must have worked—when she dragged her teeth across her bottom lip, he actually _moaned_ in response, leaning in to suck her lip into his mouth, stroking away the sting with a flick of his tongue. Elayne arched in response. She dropped her hands to begin fumbling at the line of silver buttons again, needing—

Needing—

Void take her, was men’s clothing always this difficult, or were her hands still trembling too much to be of use? She tugged harder, nearly tearing his coat open in her frustration. “ _Off,_ ” she groaned into his mouth, struggling to get to hot skin beneath all that fabric. Her cunt ached with rebuilding heat, pleasure unspooling inside her in slow, throbbing beats.

He caught her hand in one of his, thumb brushing over the knuckles as he tugged it away…and sat back on his heels. He was still straddling her thighs, towering over her as she lay sprawled back amongst the pillows. He was gorgeous framed by starlight, the dim firelight from the room below reflecting off his mask. His lips were red and swollen, slick from their kisses; his hair was mussed. “I may have revised my plan somewhat,” he said huskily. “At least so far as begging is concerned.” He shifted his weight onto one knee, eyes still locked with hers, and she heard the heavy thump of a boot hitting the floorboards. He shifted again, and there went the other.

Elayne let her hands flutter up to brush back her own stray dark curls before sliding down the arch of her neck, across her collarbone…lower, to cup her breasts. His eyes followed the delicate glide of her hands and his breath caught in his chest; she could _see_ the way he tensed in response.

“What changed your mind, I wonder?” she murmured, rubbing her thumbs across the tight peaks of her nipples. The weight of his hungry gaze was electrifying; she shuddered and rolled her hips forward, eyes going heavy-lidded. 

Marcus just _stared_ , stark hunger and a breathless sort of shock on his face—as if he had never dreamed he could be here. As if she were something unexpected, precious, _important_. He reached down to run his knuckles along the curve of her breast, then dragged them across the quivering slope of her belly to brush along the bare skin of her cunt. When his eyes dragged up her body to meet her gaze again, the look in them was nearly enough to make her sob in a breath. 

“I’m too bloody hungry for you,” he finally said, rough fingers stroking along the slippery folds of her sex—and then he reached up with his free hand to _wrest_ open the remaining buttons of his coat hard enough to send one skittering across the floor.

_“Oh!_ ” Elayne gasped.

He let go of her long enough to shrug roughly out of the heavy blue velvet, flinging it aside. The vest came next, and she _had_ to reach out to pull at the waist of his trousers, unfastening the soft fawn-colored leather—she just _had_ to. Marcus yanked the white shirt free, grabbing the fabric in a fist and pulling it over his head in one fluid motion just as she popped open the button of his pants. They spread wide, baring a dark gold trail of hair up a flat stomach…and _holy Maker_ , the sudden gorgeous, naked expanse of him.

Elayne went still, hands frozen at his waist, just staring. This was the first time she was seeing him without layers of clothing, and the sight of him even in the dim light was enough to steal her breath.

He was broad-shouldered—a warrior’s build, with thickly muscled arms and a broad chest tapering down to a slim waist. But he didn’t have the Bull’s bulk. No, Marcus was more streamlined, more elegant and less showy in his strength. This, Elayne thought, dazed, was the body of a man who fought and fought often, but not one who relied on his muscles as a blunt instrument.

She tentatively ran her fingertips up from the waist of his trousers, along the tight muscles of his abs. She could feel scars in the darkness, could see some of them snaking silvery-pale across his skin, and something…some madness, some well of compassion, some tenderness spilling out of her in messy waves…had her sitting up slowly, drawing their bodies close. He was still straddling her hips, frozen under her regard; Elayne heard his breath catch as she leaned in, dark hair tumbling around them, and brushed her lips across a nasty scar high on his shoulder.

He swallowed. “What are you doing?” Marcus asked, sounding briefly unlike himself.

Elayne pressed her palms flat against his shoulder blades, feeling the strength of muscle bunching and releasing there, and ran the very tip of her tongue along the old scar tissue. Her full breasts brushed against his bare chest as she did so, tighttighttight nipples dragging across his chest hair, and they groaned in unison.

Maker. The feel of him, the _sound_ , was enough to send waves of heat crashing through her. She nuzzled his shoulder, kissing old wounds and wishing she could heal the memory of them with the brush of her lips. “I love you,” she sighed against his skin.

It was the first time she had said the words out loud, though her body had been thrumming with them for what felt like hours—days. He drew in a ragged breath at her admission and everything seemed to go very still again. She wondered, heart tripping over itself in her chest, whether her words affected him the way _his_ had touched _her_. She wondered whether her confession shook him to the core.

And then he pulled back to meet her eyes, rough hands cupping her jaw in a touch so gentle it nearly broke her heart…and she no longer had to wonder.

“You love me?” he asked, voice gone deep, throaty. “Are you… Are you certain?”

How could he doubt? She arched up, lifting her face even as he dropped his until she could press their foreheads together. She could feel each uneven exhalation of his breath against her skin. She swore she could hear his heart pounding too-fast in his chest. She lifted her hands to rest them over his pulse, feeling the frantic drumming echo through her own body in response. “I’m certain,” she promised. Then, because it seemed he needed more: “I _promise_.”

“ _Maker_.”

Elayne shivered and closed her eyes. She melted against his broad chest as Marcus wrapped powerful arms around her, slowly (slowly, slowly, gently, as if she were infinitely precious) bearing her down against the twisted sheets once more. He followed, settling between her welcoming thighs, weight pressing her against the mattress in a way that sent a powerful lick of heat curling through her body. She arched with a low noise, hands trapped between them, blindly seeking his mouth. When he caught her lips with his, she opened beneath him, parting like water to a thirsty tongue.

He caught his weight against one palm, levering himself up just enough to shove at the waist of his trousers; Elayne followed the shift of his hips with a rolling arc of her own, legs wrapping around Marcus’ waist as he kicked his pants and smalls aside. The first electric thrill of his oh-so hard cock against bare flesh made her jolt upwards and gasp into his mouth. She rutted up once just to feel the heat of him drag against her slick cunt; his answering growl was enough to make her keen.

_Fuck_. She felt strangely empty, hyper-aware of her own body as she clung to his, undulating against him in a slow, sensual grind. Marcus had his hands planted on either side of her head now, keeping just enough weight on her to make her truly _feel_ the heft of him, the muscular, powerful mass pushing back against her shuddering flesh on every hitch of her hips, on every delicate writhe.

She wanted…

“Say it again,” he murmured against her mouth, words nearly lost with the stroke of his tongue. Elayne dragged her hands up to grip his shoulders, ankles locking at the small of his back. When she pushed up, she could feel the thick brand of his cock trapped between their bellies—and _she wanted_ , she wanted…

“I love you.” Whispered between them, it carried just as much weight as before; it felt so _good_ rolling off her tongue. “I love you so much; _please_. I need you. I’m— _Please_.”

The simmering hunger was driving her mad. Already, her body was throwing off sparks, and even though she’d come once already, she needed to feel his fingers against her, his cock filling her. She hitched her hips, moaning, and Marcus turned his face away to drag in a stuttery breath. His powerful arms were shaking; his entire body was coiled tight with the impulse to… To what?

_Take me. Claim me_. She only had the sketch of an understanding of what those words meant, but Andraste help her, she wanted it more than she’d ever wanted anything. “I—”

“ _Yes_.” He lifted his head, eyes meeting hers. “Void take me, I want you.” He reached down between them, trembling fingers pressing against the folds of her before gently sliding inside. Elayne gasped at the feel of his fingertips brushing over her clit, circling it carefully before thrusting slowly, _slowly_ into her clenching body. She bit her lip, hips jerking—and _Maker_ the way his eyes flared with heat, the way he held himself perfectly still as if struggling for control…

It was in every line of his body. It was in the tremors working their way through the tight clench of his muscles. It was in the harsh pants of his breath, in the way his thick cock pressed between them, slick and hard as ironbark.

Even behind the mask, she could see the incredible tension in his expression—warring desire and that ever-present need to _protect_. Protect her from what? From himself? Did he really think he could possibly hurt her with the ferocity of his need? She wanted to reach for him and swear that she trusted him, that she knew he wouldn’t hurt her if he truly let go…but the words would be hollow, even now, with everything between them.

She didn’t even know his real _name_ ; how could she assure him that he could trust himself with her?

So instead she leaned in to brush their lips together again, hyper-aware of the way he tensed in response. Maker, his entire body was wound tight with a nearly desperate need…and that simmering fear of losing himself. When she slid her hands down his shoulders, his chest, she could feel his cock—slick with precome, dragging against her belly—jerk in response. When she shifted her hips against the curve of his palm, breasts dragging along his chest, thighs spread wide in welcome, she could see the flame in his eyes.

He needed her, ached for her, was quite possibly wanting her so badly it _hurt_ , and yet he was holding himself back as if waiting for some unknowable signal to pass between them. And if it wasn’t begging—if his desire for her was too raw for games—them it had to be permission. Not spoken—she had already made her desire known—but more…demonstrative.

He needed to know he could break, and she wouldn’t be cut by the jagged pieces of him.

Swallowing roughly, Elayne moved her hands to his shoulders again and gently but firmly pushed him back. Marcus resisted for a breath before quickly pulling away. His erection jerked as he moved, flushed and slick and drawing her eyes despite herself. Maker, he was big. She licked her lips in comingled worry and _want_ even as she followed him back, moving to her hands and knees in one fluid motion. She snaked out one leg, catching Marcus around the thighs and turning him, using the momentum of her body and his own visible confusion to flip their positions.

One moment, he was levered above her, plucking her pleasure from her as Maryden coaxed songs from her lute. The next his big body was toppling back amongst the pillows and she was straddling his trim hips, her hands pressed against rippling muscles as she leaned forward.

“What,” he began, voice hoarse.

Elayne pressed in, the very tips of her breasts brushing his chest as she gave Marcus a biting kiss, sweet and sharp together—enough to make him buck beneath her with a warning hiss of breath. “I want you,” she said, reaching between them. He jerked when she wrapped her fingers firmly around his cock, hands falling to grip her thighs almost tight enough to bruise. The _sound_ he made when she stroked him rocked through her; Maker, he was so hot, so impossibly hard in her hand. She wished she could feel him without the leather of her gloves in the way. She wished she could reach down and rip off his mask, truly _see_ him, let him see her, as she tried to guide him past whatever sudden fears held him prisoner.

_You won’t hurt me, even if you lose control; I won’t let you._

She shifted, moving up on her knees. When she pressed the head of his cock against her opening, her entire body quaked in response. “I love you,” she murmured. And, because it _had_ to be said: “I trust you.”

And then she was sinking back onto him, feeling the incredible pressure of his cock filling her bit by bit by bit.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hissed, grip going tight. He strained up as if he meant to thrust into her body—but at the last moment, he grappled back control, freezing beneath her as she slowly sank down. Elayne bit her bottom lip, breaths coming in harsh pants. It felt so good, _so good_ , and yet Maker, he was so big and she so tight, unaccustomed to the sensation of being filled. It hurt a little—and then a little more as she made herself keep going—but the pleasure never abated. She met his eyes and felt the moment he broke through that last bit of her body’s resistance, and the surprise on his face was almost enough to startle a breathless laugh out of her, carrying her through that sudden bright point of pain.

“You’re,” he began.

“Not anymore.” She fluttered her eyes closed at a throb of mingled pleasure-pain as she sank the rest of the way down—his cock finally, _finally_ deep inside, almost too big. “ _Oo-ooh_ ,” Elayne gasped, voice breaking mid-word. She tipped her head back, spine arching in an exaggerated bow, and tentatively rocked forward.

The _noise_ that stole from him was enough to make her body clench in response. “Void take you,” Marcus growled, shaking hands moving up the curve of her body to cup her breasts. He thumbed the peaks, hips flexing up at the same moment she rocked down—and fuck, _fuck_ that felt like nothing she had ever experienced before. “You _are_ a desire demon. You’re… Maker.”

She hummed in a breath, head still thrown back, hips rocking forward again, _again_. Each time, his heavy cock thrust deeper into her body, forcing her to adjust to the new sensation. She could feel him pulling out and them pushing back inside again, and the sensation was… It was beyond words; it was earthshattering. Elayne felt the tug deep in her belly, core responding in undulating waves as she leaned forward again, hands braced on his hard pecs, hips beginning to move faster, faster. The angle was perfect now, erection dragging against her throbbing clit with every thrust of their hips, and she sobbed in a breath at the first wave of sparks. She was hyperaware of the barely leashed power of his body beneath hers, of the way he was watching her with rapt attention as if she were the beginning and ending of his world, of his _hands_ spanning her flesh as they moved together in a growing rhythm. The harsh pants of their breaths and the sound of their bodies meeting filled the loft; there was nothing else but them, nothing but the pleasure growing tighter and tighter with each building thrust.

She opened her eyes, dark hair falling around them, and glanced at the place where their bodies were joined— _watching_ for a breathless moment as he moved within her. It was quickly too much, far, far too much, but when she met his eyes again, that was little better. They were nearly black with lust, rimmed in fierce gold, and his lips were parted on each labored breath. A bead of sweat traveled down his temple, collecting against the edge of his mask, and his muscles tensed beneath tanned skin in a way that made all of her tighten into a fist.

She was so close she could feel her world rearranging with each hard thrust. And then one of his hands dropped between them a final time, fingers circling her clit…and she shattered with a broken cry, arching hard against crashing waves of pleasure.

Marcus growled, and Elayne’s world went toppling in a colorful blur as he suddenly heaved forward, flipping them easily—Maker, so easily—until he was pressing her hard against the mattress, one hand cradling the back of her skull in an unconscious need to protect, the other still dancing over her throbbing clit. He pulled back until he was nearly out of her body and then slammed back hard enough to make her cry out. Her vision fuzzed white, orgasm stretching taut, endless, as he thrust back into her again, _again_ , keeping her strung through the aftershocks.

It almost hurt it was so good, pleasure buzzing through her in a lightning chain that refused to end. He had her bent in two, curve of her spine against the bed, hips lifted as he drove into her unresisting flesh. Elayne cried out, nearly screamed, fighting to thrust back. _This_ was what she wanted—Marcus unleashed, unreserved, too driven to take their pleasure to let fear of his own jagged edges hold him back. _I love you_ , she thought, fighting to meet him thrust for thrust, a third orgasm inexorably building on the back of the second, _I love you I love you._

And then he pressed in to capture her mouth, hips stuttering up _hard_ ; Elayne swallowed his cry with a hitching sob of her own, feeling the scalding heat of his release, the tension screaming through his body as he lost himself within her. Something about the noise he made as he came was enough to tip her over the edge as well, body tightening around him as she shuddered through her pleasure—clawing at his back hard enough to leave marks, fighting to get closer, to… _cleave_ their flesh together as if they could somehow hold on and never let go.

_I need you_ , she thought, and the words were enough to bring tears to her eyes. _Maker help me, I can’t do this anymore without you._

In this moment, she wasn’t the Inquisitor; she wasn’t even a Circle mage. She _was_ Elayne Trevelyan, held tight within the arms of the man she loved, and nothing was going to take that from her.

Slowly—by gentle degrees—their fever-tight grip on each other loosened. Elayne sank back against the pillows with a breathless sigh, aware of her muscles going lax and sated. Marcus lifted his head to look at her, expression dazed, almost disbelieving. He reached up to tuck back a strand of black hair even as he slowly—carefully—slid from her body. “You are…so incredibly beautiful,” he said; it made her heart break to hear the catch in his voice, and she pressed forward willingly as he gathered her close. “I never thought I… I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“You couldn’t,” she promised, and when he started to protest, Elayne twisted up to press a soft kiss to his mouth. “Trust me, if you won’t trust yourself.”

Marcus hesitated, then leaned in to press his face into the curve of her neck. She could feel his faint nod. For now, that would have to do.

Elayne coiled around him, luxuriating in the feel of his strong body against hers; her own limbs felt heavy and satiated, thighs wickedly sticky with come and, perhaps, a bit of blood from her maidenhead. She shifted, loving the weight of answered pleasure in her belly, and when he brushed his lips along her neck, she shivered.

Outside their little haven, the hour was tolling midnight. Elayne turned her face toward the skylight and blinked up at the stars, smiling to herself. “Unmask!” she whispered, echoing the faraway voices she could only pretend she heard. “Unmask! Unmask!”

Marcus went very still.

The last echo of the bell ceased, and the room was very quiet— _so_ quiet Elayne swore she could hear the pounding of their hearts beneath the susurration of snow and the distant breathless cackle of flames. She stroked a hand down his back, feeling the powerful muscles shift as he pulled away just enough to look at her; their eyes met, heavy, serious.

“Do you mean it?”

She bit her bottom lip and, surprising herself, gave a faint nod. He loved her; she loved him. She couldn’t do this without him. Elayne had her friends to keep her from getting lost in the role of Inquisitor, but there was only so much they could do. With Marcus by her side, she would never have to be afraid again. She could be the powerful fist of the Inquisition in the field—tearing down Fade rifts, bringing warring factions into line, using the force of her iron will to right the world again—but she could also remain Elayne Trevelyan here, with him, in the privacy of their stolen moments.

Maybe it didn’t have to be one or the other. Maybe there were masks upon masks upon masks that could be put on or taken off as needed.

“Yes,” she said, because it seemed like he needed to hear the words. She slowly straightened, until they were facing each other in the dim starlight—just a breath apart. Slowly…slowly, slowly, slowly, fingers trembling…Elayne reached up to begin to unfasten her mask. Their eyes stayed locked together as she pushed aside the dark spill of hair to find the clever knots. Her fingers worked them open, breath caught in her throat, anticipation heavy as a touch in the air.

And then, just before the final knot of her mask came loose…from just outside their safe haven came the sound of terrified screams.

Three midnights gone.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay in this chapter, but it was a tough one. I rewrote it three times, each time taking a different tack, before finding my way. Hopefully it's smooth sailing again until the end!
> 
> So many thanks to Meglet and the Roommates for all their help. <3 you guys. I don't know if I could have posted this chapter without you.
> 
>  **Warning:** Mind description of blood, violence, and gore.

Elayne had heard more than her fair share of screams. Screams of terror. Screams of horror. Screams of rage, of pain, of despair. Her dreams were steeped in them—in the cries of those she had lost, the ones she _couldn’t save_ —and in this moment, it seemed as if the memory of all those broken cries combined was echoing through _her_ keep, rocking through her body with the force of a giant’s maul.

They grew and grew and grew, voices layering together into a single wall of sound. When she closed her eyes to catch her bearings, there was nothing she could do to escape the image of Haven burning against the darkness of her lids.

_Not here. Not again. Void take me, I promised them they would be safe._

“I have to,” Elayne gasped, but Marcus was scrambling off the bed with a muffled curse. She opened her eyes to watch helplessly as he grabbed for his leathers and shirt. There was a jerky precision to the way he dressed on the fly, a practice, as if he were used to stripping into and out of armor with peak efficiency. _The guard_ , she reminded herself. _He probably learned that trick while serving with the Kirkwall guard._

And why was she focusing on that now?

“It’s close, whatever it is,” Marcus said, stuffing his shirt into his pants as he stomped on his boots. The screams were growing, expanding, filling the air; Elayne curled her hands into fists, hyperaware of the sharp tingle of the scar bisecting her palm.

A rift? Maybe. She’d have to get closer to tell for sure.

Maker, a rift opening in Skyhold while the Inquisition was hosting half the Orlesian court couldn’t be a coincidence. And if it was just more _divine bad luck_ , then Andraste could go fuck herself.

That thought—harsh, angry enough to jolt her out of the sudden paralysis—had her staggering to her feet, hair swinging wildly about her naked body as she grabbed for the silky ends of her dress. She’d flung the pins aside— _why_ hadn’t she been more careful?—and there would be no hunting them down in the dim. Instead, she yanked the material over her head and tied the shoulders into knots, golden chains jangling merrily. “Within the walls, for certain,” she said. “But not the keep itself.”

“Thank the Maker for small mercies. Wait,” he added, catching hold of her arm as she hurried past. “Where are you going?”

“To help,” Elayne said. She frowned as he slid his hand down to clasp hers; her blood was buzzing with energy, her thoughts a jumble of plans, of contingencies. The first flare of sick fear had passed the way it always did, tamped down beneath the weight of practicality. Leadership in the field and off had come in stumbling steps at first, but she’d managed to claw her way up the steep learning curve _fast_ out of blind necessity, and now she took it on and off like a mantle.

Like a mask.

“Jenny,” he said, as outside, the sound of fighting began. It was almost lost beneath the panicked ululations of the courtiers, but Elayne was well-attuned to the noise armored boots made as they marched into battle, to the sounds of swords scraping free, to the electric charge of magic. Marcus turned his head as if he could feel it too, and he cursed beneath his breath. “Jenny, _please_. I need you to stay here where it’s safe. I’ll—”

She cut him off, clasping his hand between both of hers. “Look,” she said. “We don’t have time to argue about this.” Each second lost was another chance for a demon to come tumbling through the tissue-thin veil.

He made a frustrated noise. “I _have_ to get out there. I have to— They need me, and I can’t just—” Marcus grabbed her shoulders, pulling her close—close enough that she could feel his breath, close enough that if she listened, she could hear the erratic pounding of his heart. He was practically vibrating with caged energy and a need for action. His body was a drawn bowstring and his eyes as they searched hers were breathtaking in their intensity. He reached up to cup her face.

“Stay here. I’ll barricade the door as best I can, and I— I’ll come for you once it’s over. I promise you that. Maker, I promise I will _always_ come for you, but I just— I won’t be able to focus on what must be done unless I know you’re safe.”

“I’m not,” she began, the breath knocked out of her.

“ _Please._ ” There was a raw edge to his voice; it hurt to hear. “Maker’s breath, I’ve already lost so much. I can’t risk losing you.”

Elayne closed her eyes, tears hot on her lashes. The agony in those simple words rocked through her. The thought of all he must have suffered to put such pain there… And she wanted to bind this man to her? She wanted to make him suffer even more as she faced certain death every day?

 _You will always lose me,_ she thought, reaching up to clasp his wrists. _I was born to die_. “I’m sorry,” Elayne whispered, hating that she was the one putting that look in his eyes. “I want to give you what you need, but…they need me too.”

“I love you,” he said, with all the baffled ache of a hurting child.

“I love you too. It’ll be all right. You won’t lose me. Not—” Not tonight.

He seemed to be relenting, the need to hurry to the growing clash of combat winning out over the need to see her kept safe. He glanced once over his shoulder at a cry all too close to their own door, then back at her. Suddenly his fingers slid up into her hair and he pulled her close for a hard, desperate kiss. When her hands fluttered to press against the planes of his chest, she could feel his heart pounding beneath her fingertips.

_I wish I wish I wish…_

How could she even come close to finishing that thought? She wanted so much. _I wish I could be hero and maiden to you at once. I wish I had more time to explain. I wish I could tell you I won’t ever break your heart._

From a noble Marcher home to the Circle to this—how could she possibly have been prepared for the twists and turns her life would take?

She parted her lips, tongue brushing his in a brief, desperate tangle. They had so little time. Cullen would be ordering his men into position and Josephine would be trying to calm the nobles. Dorian, Vivienne, and Cole would already be at the rift holding the demons at bay while they waited for her, and Leliana—

What _would_ this night’s false Inquisitor be doing? How much damage would she cause when she went tearing out onto the field and the nobles realized she had _lied_ to them?

She turned her face away with a soft noise, breaking the desperate kiss. The harsh pant of their breaths seemed very loud in this private moment they’d managed to carve out on the cusp of battle. And yet, duty was waiting.

“I have to—” he began shakily, even as she murmured, “I must—”

Neither got a chance to finish—the rest was lost beneath a _crash_ of splintering wood and a hellish screech. Oh Maker, no, she _knew_ that sound. Elayne jerked back, grabbing Marcus’ arm and moving between him and the spindly-legged demon standing in the ruined doorway. At the same moment, Marcus snarled a curse and grabbed her arm, pulling her safely behind him.

She saw him reach instinctively for a sword that wasn’t there, fingers closing blindly over air, and the demon was dropped into a crouch, ready to—

“Watch out!” Elayne cried as it disappeared into a haze of green. She tried to yank Marcus away even as he wrapped her in one strong arm and slung her out of the warning corona seconds before the demon appeared with a wicked flick of its long tail. They were slammed back onto the floor in a desperate tangle of limbs, and she felt the lash of displaced air inches away from her unprotected cheek. Elayne turned away with a gasp, hyperaware of the way Marcus curled protectively over her, as if he could shield her with his own body.

He jerked once, hard. There was the sound of rending cloth and _flesh_ and the copper tang of blood on the air. Marcus hissed in a surprised breath but only curled tighter around her, shielding her, as he shuddered against the bone-deep rake of wickedly sharp claws. Elayne felt the surprised huff of his breath against her cheek and the pained convulsion of his body; blood spattered the floor in a steady rain.

And then, with nightmarish speed, he was ripped away.

“Marcus!” Elayne cried, twisting to grab for him—her fingers closed over air and the whisper of heat seconds before he _slammed_ into the far wall. His head reverberated against the splinter wood with a sickening _crack_ , cry knocked out of him before he tumbled brokenly to the worn floorboards. A shower of blood was left behind, painting the wall in a macabre spray.

Elayne swallowed a scream and struggled up to her knees, hampered by the silk gown; her mask had been knocked just enough askew by the initial fall to half-cover one eye. Her vision was blurry, indistinct images taking on nightmarish proportions:

The demon, rising on its haunches and howling in triumph; 

_blood_ pooling thick across the floor; 

Marcus fighting to stagger up, grimacing against what had to be blinding pain, tensing in preparation for an attack—he was going to launch himself bodily at the demon with no sword, no armor, no hope of survival, just to save her…

She couldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t let him die.

She _would not_ allow it.

Elayne ripped off her mask with one hand, clearing her line of sight even as she thrust the other out and let the rift energy come pouring from her. It ripped through the supple leather of her golden half-gloves, splitting the skin as her mark charged, green light filling the small loft. A swirling, brilliant vortex hovered over their heads, and the demon screamed again, this time in pain. It tried to lash out, jabbing blindly even as Marcus made his charge, but the tug of her power was too strong—too strong—she was _too strong_ to let this creature hurt the man she loved. She grit her teeth in determination as the dancing green light spiked wildly…and the demon disappeared in a flurry of ash.

It was over.

She let out a breath and closed her fist, spell diminishing. Her hand still glowed with its tell-tale mark, but the immediate danger had passed. Everything was going to be okay. Thank the Maker.

“Marcus,” she said, looking up. He stood perfectly still mere steps from where the demon had been, the color rapidly draining from what she could see of his face. Purple-red blossoms unfurled in delicate petals across the front of his coat in three perfectly symmetrical blooms. Bloodstains…rapidly growing as he swayed in place. Panic began to swell again in her breast, making her breath catch in her throat.

“Are you—” Elayne began, but she never got the chance to finish. 

He staggered when he took a step toward her, and she scrambled to her feet, stumbling forward and catching him against her side before he could collapse into a (oh _Maker_ , no) growing pool of his own blood. She instinctively pressed a hand to his chest to steady him and nearly jerked her hand away in horror when her fingers came away slick and red. “Andraste save us,” she breathed, barely managing to hold his weight against her body. “Did it—”

“Punctured,” he managed, voice coming out in an alarming wheeze. He fumbled for her shoulder, growing heavier as his legs began to give out—soaking her dress from the deep gouges down his back and the three perfect stabs of the demon’s claws to his front. Lungs, heart, gut: how many vital organs where there in a man’s torso? “You—”

She slung an arm around his waist and hoisted him up against her as best she could, heart thundering in panic even as she rapidly flipped through options. Would there be potions in the storeroom below? No, no, _fuck_ , no, there’d been a leak in the requisition office’s roof and they’d moved all of the lyrium and elfroot into the south tower, all the way across what had become, from the sound of it, a raging battlefield. She’d have to leave him defenseless, to fight her way past Maker knew what, to get to it, but first, “Let’s get you in bed,” Elayne said, trying to move him toward the rumpled mattress. They made it one step, two, before he was stumbling hard, legs giving out—and dragging her down with him.

She tried to catch him even in freefall, one hand jerking up to cradle the back of his skull; they slammed against the bloody floorboards in an inelegant sprawl, Marcus gasping in a wet, wheezing breath as he stiffened and tried to roll away—to keep from crushing her, noble even now.

Her fingers, where they carded through his hair, were slick from the crack in his skull.

“Stop,” she gasped, trying to force him to still. “You’ll hurt yourself more.”

“Have to—” Maker, his voice; it sounded as if something vital had been damaged ( _punctured_ , he’d said, the spikes of long talons sinking into unresisting flesh) and there was so much blood. It wet his lips, making them a garish, cherry red; when he coughed, more blood bubbled up.

Elayne made a low noise and reached up to cup his jaw. He winced and made as if to sit up— _stubborn_ man—but a single palm pressed against his shoulder was enough to keep him down. His eyes were worryingly unfocused even as he blinked up at her, struggling, staring. “You’re hurt,” she said. “Maker’s breath, you’re hurt so badly, and I don’t have— I need to get you a healing draught. I need—”

She needed help. But she didn’t dare leave him alone, and she couldn’t just stay to watch him rapidly bleed out. Already her dress was soaked through from knees to hem. Elayne pressed a hand over one of the wounds, but she was reluctant to put any real pressure on it, not knowing if his lungs (breath wheezing in, wheezing out, like a bellows with a small hole constantly leaking air) could stand the strain. She wished Solas were here. He knew these sorts of things the way she didn’t.

She was failing him; she was going to _lose him_.

“I’m so sorry,” Elayne whispered, fighting against the childish urge to cry. She could feel the tears welling up as the sound of fighting soared higher and higher through the open doorway. An echoing roar made the whole building tremble in response. There were people out there depending on her—they needed her to close the rift before more demons could push their way through. Marcus needed her to find him healing potions before he could slip away…but he needed her here, too, to guard him from further harm. She was sick with worry and fear and indecision, because if she left him alone, there would be no one to protect him. If she didn’t, he would surely bleed out before someone found them hidden here.

Impossible choices. That’s what being the Inquisitor was supposed to be, wasn’t it? Becoming responsible for all the world’s impossible choices?

She dropped her head, tears brimming hot against her lashes, and tried to force herself to sort through her options as Marcus struggled for every breath, watching her with dazed golden-brown eyes as if he could not bring himself to look away. “I need to leave you,” she said, wiping almost angrily at a tear as it rolled down her cheek. Really, in the end there _was_ no choice. “But just for a moment. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and I’ll bring help. You’ll be okay; I will _make_ you be okay.” She leaned in to press their foreheads together, squeezing her eyes shut. “I love you, Marcus.”

He took a shaky breath. Another. His voice, when it came, was a rasp. “My name is not—Marcus.”

Elayne gave a choking laugh that broke halfway through. She pulled back again, dragging the ruined edge of her half-glove again through unchecked tears. “Yeah,” she said. The queasy green light of her mark danced around them, flickering over their faces. Even if she’d wanted to, there’d be no denying who _she_ was now. “I know.”

She glanced over her shoulder, then began to rise. She’d be able to throw up a magical barricade across the open doorway, perhaps. That might at least buy some time, and if she hurried—if she truly _hurried_ —perhaps she could make it back in time to save his life before the whole keep was dragged down in flames. Elayne startled when fingers closed around her wrist, however, and she allowed herself to be pulled back to his side. Marcus’s eyes were scanning her face, skin alarmingly pale against the silver mask. 

“Not _safe_ ,” he managed.

“I know,” she conceded, “but it’s going to be all right. I promise you, it’s going to be all right, and I am going to—”

He reached up clumsily to touch one of the long, dark curls spilling across his chest. He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger as if marveling at the color. “Elayne,” he said, voice a broken whisper, but clearer now, as if he were forcing himself to focus past the pain. “It’s—not safe.”

Elayne went very, very still, gooseflesh sweeping down her arms in a breathless shiver.

She knew that voice.

“…Cullen?” she murmured, and his eyes flickered closed. All at once, everything seemed to still, to narrow down into the sweep of his dark lashes, the parted lips sans scar, the familiar-yet-not dark stubble. No. No, it couldn’t possibly be. She would have _known_. Elayne reached up with fumbling, graceless fingers to unfasten knots…heart hammering painfully fast as she carefully lifted the silver mask away.

“ _Oh,_ ” she breathed as Cullen blinked open his eyes to meet hers. Their gazes met, locked; she couldn’t break away if she wanted to. There was a strange, strained sort of humor in those eyes, as if he had found the bitter joke in their double deception—and in the manner of their final unmasking. Violence. Bloodshed. Pain. Would she ever be able to escape from the shadow of death?

And then he very slowly (obviously fading in and out even as his lips curved at the corners, struggling to remain focused as if she were the only thing in his universe that mattered) lifted the coil of her hair and murmured in that broken yet impossibly familiar voice, “I—miss the gold.”

All at once, she remembered Cole’s words, whispered against the shell of her ear before all this madness began: _He doesn’t see you until it’s dark, but he prefers it light. He didn’t even know he was allowed to have preferences until they were there, and now he can’t look away. He used to be stronger than this, he thinks, but she is bewitching._

_He is bewitched._

“Cullen,” Elayne said on a shaken breath. That word, spoken like a prayer, a benediction, broke the perfect stillness of her body. She pressed in suddenly, kissing his bloodied mouth with a desperate noise, _wanting_. How had she not known all this time how much she wanted this man? The way he tightened his fingers in her hair, the way he responded to her even now, when he lay gravely injured, fading… _Maker_ , it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that she’d been given this gift and not even realized what she’d had until… 

Until…

“I’m going to find us help,” Elayne swore. She cupped his cheeks between her palms, face close to his, gazes locked even as he struggled to stay alert. To stay with her. “I’m going to do whatever it takes to save you, and then I’m going to save our home, and _then_ we are going to sit down and figure this out. Do you understand? You are under orders to not die before I can _save you._ ”

He made a low noise, a serrated huff of breath that was almost a laugh, but his eyes had gone worryingly cloudy. She was wasting time.

Pressing in again, fighting against the surging terror that this would be the last time she’d see him alive—that the Maker had given them this one minute of knowing each other before snatching it cruelly away—Elayne pressed their mouths together in a long, sweet, aching kiss. She felt it down to her bones; she felt it crashing through her in messy, helpless waves. She loved him. She loved _Cullen_. She couldn’t bear to leave his side.

She had to. She had to. She had to.

She pulled back with a broken noise of her own, wiping away a trail of blood, hating the way her fingers trembled in her fear. “I’ll come back for you,” she said—then, deliberately echoing his words from earlier: “I promise I will always come for you.”

He didn’t answer; his eyes had closed and his breath…his breath seemed very still.

“Cullen?” she said, terror winging big and dark inside her. “ _Cullen?_ ”

And then soft, too-cool fingers brushed her wrist and Elayne jerked to stare as Cole—silent as starlight itself—crouched beside her. His face was shadowed by the wide brim of his hat and there was blood and ichor dripping off the wickedly sharp edges of his blades. “Dorian and Vivienne wait for you by the rift,” he said, reaching for the bottle of healing potion tucked into one of his many pockets. His eyes were locked on Cullen’s bone-white face. “I will help him. I think I may have enough to help.”

“But I have to—” Elayne tried to protest, watching with barely stifled hope as he slid Cullen’s head up onto his lap and pressed the lip of the bottle to his mouth. Long, nimble fingers closed over the upper half of Cullen’s face, forcing him to swallow with a weak convulsion. “He needs—”

“They all need her,” Cole said, eyes never leaving his patient, “and they’ll never stop. They’ll never stop and it’ll never lessen, and there’s only so much we can do to shield her from their grasping hands. How can I be selfish enough to want to claim even a piece of her—and yet I want all of her. I have never wanted anyone like this, even before I knew. _Elayne._ ”

Then Cole looked up, pale brows arched in pleased surprise. “He wants to help you too.”

Elayne choked on a sudden sob, one hand flying to her mouth—shuddering against it. The world blurred in tears, both happy and scared, and in that moment, she couldn’t say which emotion held stronger sway.

“Go help them,” Cole said, tilting his head. The color was slowly returning to Cullen’s cheeks, and his lashes were fluttering, though he wasn’t back to full awareness yet. “I won’t let them take him from you.” Then he frowned down at Cullen. “His memories are going fuzzy; they’re slippery, like red silk against his fingers. Is he dreaming? He must have dreamed her.”

Elayne covered her mouth with one hand and fought not to lose herself in fear.

Outside the splintered door, the battle raged. The whole of Skyhold was waiting; they _needed_ her. She didn’t have the luxury of her own pain. Slowly, Elayne scraped together the shattered pieces of herself, of her hopes, at her promise of _freedom_ and dashed away the tears, rising to her feet. She felt as if the world were pitching beneath her feet, but she forced herself to stand tall and strong. And yet: _Please, please don’t take this from me._

Cole looked up again and gave her a little, unreadable smile. “It’s okay,” he promised. “It won’t matter either way. Varric said this story will have a happy ending.”

“It will,” she agreed on a whisper, gathering the mantle—the _mask_ —of the Inquisitor around her again. She’d find a staff and robe in the storeroom below. She’d beat back the demons threatening her people, she’d close the rift torn open on her own doorstep, and she’d strike down whoever was responsible. She’d defend her home, her safe haven, to her very last breath. And then…

…and then she’d see what came next.


	17. Chapter 17

Once her course was set, Elayne didn’t delay in seeing it through.

She ripped off the soft golden half-gloves and flung them aside as she raced down the stairs, leaving Marcus (no, _Cullen_ —dear Maker, that wasn’t going to be an easy adjustment to make) in Cole’s care. The main room was lit by dancing firelight and the clash of battle was steadily rising, deafening. She needed—Maker, she _needed_ to get out there.

Thankfully, the storeroom was well-stocked. She’d never been one to believe in providence despite the Chantry’s claims, but in this moment, it seemed almost like divine intervention that their tryst had been held in this particular part of the castle. She shoved aside a stack of ledgers to throw open a chest clearly marked _robes_. Elayne grabbed the first she found and struggled into it, snagging a cowl and holding it between her teeth as she furiously fastened the long line of buttons and buckles and straps. She shoved her feet into only slightly-too-big boots even as she pushed her dark hair up into the cowl; her heart was pounding a frenzied, painful staccato.

_Hurry, hurry, hurry hurry hurry._

Elayne snagged the best staff she could find, taking an extra—necessary—moment to test the way it responded to her magic. Electricity sparked around her, dancing off her skin like a lover’s kiss. It would do. She took a step forward…then paused, glancing up the steps. She could hear Cole quietly murmuring, could hear the rasp of cloth as he wiped away blood ( _so much blood_ ) and it was a sudden physical pain not to turn on her heel and go racing up to be by his side again. She almost did, heart in her throat—

But no, _no_ , she _couldn’t_. She wasn’t some fool girl in love; she didn’t have that luxury. She was the Inquisitor, and no matter how sharply worry tore at the edges of her mind, she couldn’t keep thinking of Cullen now, couldn’t spare the time to be sick with dread. He would be safe; he would be _fine_. He would make it through this night, and they would deal with the fallout of what they had inadvertently begun together.

_Oh Maker, let it be so._

Swinging the staff once, forcing her mind into order, Elayne took a deep breath and bolted for the door. The blast of frigid air was a shock after the intimate heat of the loft, and out here, the clanging of the bells, the screams, the sounds of fighting were all too clear. There were already men stationed at the entrance to the tavern and all major doors leading into the Keep. One called out a warning, but Elayne simply raised a palm—now glowing faintly in the cold night air—and the soldier quieted.

Small but desperate skirmishes dotted the grounds and battlements. She sent a powerful arc of lightning toward a duo of soldiers as they fought to take down a rage demon, only pausing long enough to see it sink into the ground in a bubble of liquid flames. The nearest soldier looked up and tossed her a grateful salute; there was a burn up one side of her armor and smudges of ash on her face. If Elayne had left Cullen sooner—

No, there was no time for regret. She pressed on.

One of Cullen’s men fell in step beside her as she hurried across the snow-covered yard; there was blood on his drawn sword. His face was set in grim lines. “Inquisitor,” he said.

“Commander Cullen has been injured,” Elayne said, keeping her eyes trained ahead. The real trouble—the rift itself—was within the keep. It could be nowhere else. “It’s unlikely he’ll rally before the fighting ends.”

He gave a curt nod. “Understood.”

“What’s your report?”

“We have them on the rails, Inquisitor. The attack came sudden—one of the guests opened a rift right in the middle of the grand hall using some kind of strange device…”

“I’m familiar with it,” she interrupted. Only a very few of Corypheus’s highest-ranking followers—or tools, like the Grand Duchess, so perfectly in place he could not overlook the opportunity—were given the means to tear the veil. The fact that it was too difficult a trick for Corypheus to pull more than a handful of times was a blessing in itself. “Has the traitor been apprehended?”

He shot her a keen-eyed look before leading the way up the stairs, vaulting them two at a time. “He is in custody awaiting further judgment. His men—what few there were—are already dead or captured. It was a small group, Inquisitor; best they could get past our eyes and ears, I figure. All that remains now are the demons that escaped the keep before we could bar the doors. There have been no civilian casualties and few injuries thus far; your team is waiting for you by the rift.”

“Then that is my cue.” She nodded for him to open the big doors, knowing the rift would trigger another wave of activity the moment she was near. She swung her staff in a slow circle, feeling the buzz of adrenaline sizzle down her spine, the excitement of battle making her heart pound. She’d never been particularly violent before, but there was something…

Something _freeing_ about just letting her powers loose, about becoming the oncoming storm. She felt the tingle in her fingertips as an ice spell formed, and the whole world—the screams, the clash of swords, the fear, the worry over Cullen—all melted away.

Her mind was clear as a winter’s night. For now, at least, the concerns of the world could not touch her.

The doors opened; a vivid green thread arced from the rift not twenty feet away, right in the middle of the hall. Her gaze swept the room just long enough to determine that the guests had been safely spirited away, with guards posted at each door; a man in a golden mask was unconscious and chained to the foot of her throne. Everything was in order.

And then Dorian tossed her a jaunty salute as four sparks of light streamed from the rift, demons climbing through the tear in the Fade. “Ah, Inquisitor. Good of you to join us. Vivienne and I were just keeping a tally to see who could defeat the most creepy-crawlies before you appeared.”

“It would be easier on your ego if you were to cease keeping such close count,” Vivienne said with an arch look. “My dear,” she added to Elayne, “prepare yourself.”

That was all the warning given before the first wave broke.

Fighting came naturally to her now, where less than a year before, she’d never cast a spell beyond the watchful eyes of the Templars. It was still, always, forever, invigorating, thrilling, to be able to let loose so utterly with no fear of reprisal. The three of them moved through the fight with practiced ease, staves spinning, electricity, fire and ice shooting across gleaming onyx floors to catch the demons as they advanced. It wasn’t often Elayne built a party comprised completely of mages (supported by a handful of the soldiers, though they mostly hovered near their posts), but she drilled them often just in case this day ever came. Now, thanks to those drills—thanks to the tireless efforts of her team, of the entire Inquisition—what could have been a slaughter was little more than…

…than a _dance_.

She almost laughed when she realized Dorian was humming an Orlesian waltz under his breath. He looked at her and winked, spinning away with, oh yes, a very clear rhythm to his steps. She’d always thought there was something graceful about the way battle ebbed and flowed, but tonight, in the ballroom where she’d danced within Cullen’s strong arms, their movements felt perfectly choreographed; their spells wove together in a symphony.

It was beautiful.

“Very well done,” Vivienne called out, a smile in her voice, and it was clear she felt it too. The last of the demons fell with a scream that no longer sent chills down her spine. When the rift burned bright, warning of a second wave soon to come, Elayne took the moment to glance over at her friends with a grateful twist of her heart.

_I’m glad it was you_ , she thought, nonsensically. The energy of the fight made her feel, for now, so very light inside. Cole would save Cullen, and she would save the day with Dorian and Vivienne at her side. In front of the Orlesian court, _magic_ would save them all. For a brief, beautiful moment, she was filled with nothing but hope.

…and then the pride demon came barreling through. Of course.

“Well, shit,” Dorian said, in such a perfectly unconscious echo of Varric that Vivienne actually snorted. Elayne simply inched back, preparing for a long, _long_ battle. “And just when I was about to note how _easy_ this whole affair has been.”

“Please don’t,” Elayne said. “You know how I feel about being jinxed.”

“You know how _I_ feel about being wrong.”

“My dears,” Vivienne interrupted, arcane sword flashing as she dove in for a sudden, vicious attack, “as witty as no doubt you both are, less chatter and more combat would see this done all the sooner.”

Elayne ducked her head and sent a fireball flying at the demon’s flank. Dorian just grinned toothily, a ghostly giant skull rising seconds before the demon’s huge chain came smashing down. Gilt chairs and forgotten finery (a dropped mask, a stole, a ceremonial sword) clattered at the impact and a muffled scream rose from deeper within the keep. She set her jaw at the reminder of all those lives depending on her and threw herself once more into the breathless swirl of battle.

She was a force of nature; she was a hurricane.

There were a few bad moments along the way. Vivienne was caught once in the monster’s huge grip, but before Elayne could react, the senior enchantress slammed her gleaming sword into the meaty fist and _twisted_ the blade, dropping lithe and easy to her feet when it released her with a howl. Dorian was knocked back hard enough to throw the huge double doors open again. Snow blew through the hall on a sharp wind, and the soldiers on guard swept in with him, swords drawn. Their steel was welcome—she could feel the exhaustion trying to creep through the exultation, could feel the sense that she was running out of time, energy, with very little left in reserve.

They had to be nearing the end. They just had to be.

“Look out!” someone called, and Elayne jerked away to avoid the giant chain. It slammed into the far wall with a _crash_ , a _shatter_ ; she flung up one arm just in time to protect her face as colored glass rained down around her. It caught the flickering candlelight, bright as multi-faceted jewels scattering around her feet. The jagged ends felt like thousands of tiny knives, and Dorian’s “ _Elayne!_ ” was nearly lost beneath the creature’s roar.

She jerked her chin up, bits of stained glass caught in the folds of her robe; blood trickled down from cuts across her cheeks, her hands and arms, and all at once, she wasn’t tired—she was furious. Elayne flung up her hand, calling on the rift magic that bubbled up inside her. Green light exploded over the demon, spiraling out and out and out as it bellowed its rage, its pain. It yanked back its chain, lifting one huge arm to send it crashing down again…but her spell was too strong. Shuddering, its oil-slick eyes rolled back into its head.

Slowly, like the beginning of an avalanche, the demon began to crumple. It sagged before tipping inelegantly to one side, legs giving out. The chain fell from lax fingers as it came crashing to the floor—disappearing into a haze of ash before it hit gleaming onyx.

_Now._

She lifted one hand, focusing her energy on the rift itself. She could feel movement beyond the veil—other demons pressing in, desperate to make it to the other side—but she ignored them as she grabbed the edges of the rift. She felt something inside her respond, lurching against the bone-deep connection. It was as if she were tying herself to the rift—as if she were feeding it some part of her. If she let go, she could go tumbling, lost in that deep well…but instead she gritted her teeth and yanked back, hand closing into a fist.

With a boom like distant thunder, the rift closed; the tear in the veil mended. Elayne let out a sharp exhalation and sagged against her staff, spell dissipating. With it went the clear-headed focus of battle. The certainty. She closed her eyes, letting the exhaustion and steadily creeping fear wash over her again, through her—heavy as a tidal wave.

There was a long, weighty silence.

“ _Well_ ,” Dorian finally said. “That was bracing. No, truly,” he added at Vivienne’s low noise of disapproval, “such excitement, and not a single courtier dead. They’ll be talking of this for _months_.” 

More gossip to feed the ever-growing mill. More rumors to stack upon rumors about the Herald of Andraste and her disciples. Why did the mere thought of what they might say about their golden figurehead make her feel so tired inside?

There was the crunch of glass beneath heavy-soled shoes and the sound of low voices. She sighed when her friend reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair back under her cowl; slowly, she blinked open her eyes, looking up into his warm expression. Doors were opening up and down the hall, soldiers moving across the ravaged ballroom floor…followed, she noticed, by the brightly-dressed courtiers they could no longer keep at bay. Snow drifted lazily through the blown-own windows, falling around Elayne soft as a whisper. Shards of glass were scattered around her feet in brilliant greens and blues and yellows; she couldn’t escape the feeling she was standing amongst the shattered pieces of herself. “Let them talk,” Elayne murmured, watching the nobles as they looked around with open wonder. When their eyes fell on her, she had to fight the urge to flinch away. “So long as everyone is safe.”

“They’ll be talking of _you_ for an entire age to come,” he said with the soft smile he only shared when no one was looking. “Whether you like it or not. You saved them.”

“We saved them,” Elayne countered, straightening, feigning a strength she did not feel. If they were going to look at her like _that_ , the least she could do was pretend to be worthy of it. “All of us.”

Dorian just shook his head and brushed brightly colored glass from her sleeve. “Perhaps. Call me a cynic, but I believe there may be room for only one hero in this tale.”

_I’m not a hero_. There didn’t seem much point in protesting; Josephine was already bustling toward them in her maroon-and-gold dress and delicate gold half-mask. It was strange, seeing her without her usual pile of papers and stylus. She looked naked with her hands fluttering, empty. “You’re all right,” she breathed. “Thank the Maker. When the rift opened, I thought for sure we were all— Well. It is no matter.”

_I thought for sure we were all dead_. How many times had she lived through her own sense of impending mortality? Elayne closed her eyes again, just for a moment, collecting the scattered pieces of herself— _aware_ of eyes following her every breath. “I need to… I need to go do something,” she murmured, taking a step toward the door. Now that the danger had passed, she wanted nothing more than to fling the ill-fitting robe aside and sprint back to Cullen. Lose herself in his arms, his warmth, again. “I—”

“Inquisitor,” Josephine said, catching her arm gently before she could get more than two steps away. “Where are you— You are needed _here_.”

“But…”

More and more and more courtiers were pouring out from where they had hidden in the undercroft, in the solar, in Josephine’s office. They were beginning to fill the hall like the rise of high tide, and Elayne was trapped on the dais facing them all down, hyperaware of the unconscious traitor at her feet, of the throne framed perfectly behind her, of the drifts of snow and starlight kissing her skin like the touch of the divine and their _eyes_. All around, from every corner, their _eyes_ were on her heavy as steel bars.

Suddenly, one of the courtiers closest to the dais clasped her hands before her and fell into a deep curtsy. Next to her, another followed suit, then another, then another, until like a breaking wave they _all_ bowed low. It was the snowy banks outside of Haven all over again—all that was missing was the Maker-damned singing, and Elayne fought to keep very, very still as the entire blighted Orlesian court bowed before her like she was some kind of holy figure. Some kind of _savior_.

_I’m just a woman_ , she wanted to shout. _Stop looking at me like that._

Her gaze swept the crowd, stomach lurching, heart pounding a rapid staccato in her chest…and fell upon a pair of figures all the way at the other end of the hall, visible now above the worshipful crowd. Cole, brim of his hat tipped low so only his chin was visible. And leaning against him, bloody but whole, _safe_ …

Cullen.

Their eyes met over the vast distance that separated them…and she couldn’t read his face. It was as impassive as if he were still wearing a mask, cold and distant and inscrutable—and _that_ made her eyes finally sting with tears she didn’t dare shed. Not in front of so many.

He straightened a little at something he read in her expression, but already the courtiers were rising from their reverent genuflect. Elayne watched, helpless, as he turned away to murmur something to Cole and the two of them slipped along the far edges of the crowd toward the solar. Beyond that, the battlement, and beyond that, his tower, where the last vestiges of Marcus would be carefully stripped away and Commander Cullen would remain in his place—shaken from what he had experienced, perhaps not even fully believing it was more than a fever dream, but healed, whole, alive…and wearing armor she wasn’t sure she would ever be able to pierce again. She wanted to call out to him, to chase him down before that door was closed between them forever. So much—too much—had happened in the last few hours. They never had their chance to talk; they never had their chance to figure out what it all meant.

She was very, very afraid that the closed-off look on his face meant they never would.

“Please,” Elayne whispered under her breath, but Josephine was moving close again to murmur instructions, and people were reaching for her with glad, demanding hands—as if by touching her, they would be blessed. As if she belonged to them. 

_Please. Please. Please._

“Inquisitor!” someone called, the crowd pressing in, eager. And, “Herald! The Herald of Andraste!” There was true religious fervor in those voices as they rose to fill all of Skyhold, faces lifted, hands reaching, asking, taking. Maker, what was she thinking? She couldn’t go to Cullen. She couldn’t escape. There was a mountain of duty, of expectation, and as much as she wanted to shrug it off and lose herself in the fantasy of being his again, there was too much riding on her narrow shoulders for her to ever be that selfish.

Jenny of Starkhaven was gone forever.

Tonight, she was the Inquisitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have work travel coming up soon, so I don't know what my posting schedule will look like. I'll do my best to get another chapter up before I fly out, but the big talk probably won't happen for another week or so.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art in this chapter by the amazing IrmaPrunesquallor. Go to http://irmaprunesquallor.deviantart.com/ to tell them how incredible they are!
> 
> Make sure to check out Chapter 13 for INCREDIBLE art by NoImNotEvenSorry. http://noimnotevensorry.tumblr.com/ Go check out their tumblr and tell them how awesome they are!

There were days of exhausting work packed into the next fragile span of hours.

That shouldn’t have been new to Elayne—the Inquisition had been drifting from one state of high alert to another for what sometimes felt like years now—but after the interminable night she’d had, each new _duty_ felt like sandpaper scraping over bare skin. Bare nerves.

She felt battered and raw and vulnerable in a way she never had before. Her limbs were heavy and it had been so long since she’d last slept that every time she blinked, the world cascaded into darkness in a shower of sparks. Elayne rubbed at her face and tried to ignore the swimming in her head…and the awkward, _painful_ distance spanning between them like its own sort of rift as Cullen gave his latest report.

“—men are scouring the hills now,” he was saying, voice detached. He’d retired to his room immediately after the battle, but only long enough to grudgingly allow himself to be doctored before he’d strapped into his usual armor and waded back into the fray. He must have taken the time to rinse the dye from his hair as well—it shone gold in the flickering candlelight. If she dared to _look at him_ for longer than a heartbeat at a time, her eyes would be drawn again and again to the now-visible scar bisecting his full upper lip.

How had he hidden that from her? How hadn’t she _known_ as she dragged her fingers through that wavy hair, stroked her tongue past those lips, arched aching and wanting against the broad planes of his familiar body? How had she missed it?

Maker, she couldn’t be thinking about that now.

And yet, as he spoke, each word sparked a memory that skittered like a lightning chain over her skin no matter how hard she tried to fight it.

“—no sign of a larger force. I’ve ordered troops to search the high peaks, but so far it appears as if these men were working alone.”

“My scouts confirm that finding,” Leliana added from her perch on Josephine’s desk. She’d also changed sometime in the early swirl of confusion into her simple leathers and tunic, red hair tucked behind her ears. It was a relief to be able to actually look at her and not the bizarre mirror image Inquisitor she had been over the past few nights. Elayne tucked a loose dark curl back into her cowl, not letting herself glance at Cullen. Had _he_ seen Leliana wearing Elayne’s shape? The thought, the possibility, left her feeling cold inside. “We’ve made little progress questioning the noble who opened the rift, but it has been enough to verify his identity.”

Josephine leaned forward, elbows resting against her desk. Elayne was ringed on the other side, opposite Leliana; Cullen was standing stiffly what felt like miles away. The tension in the room was palpable, though neither Josephine nor Leliana seemed inclined to acknowledge it. “The Count Henri de Ghuilene. He is a minor player in the Game, known more for his eagerness to advance than any great skill or patronage. His allies are all minor families at best—it is unlikely they would have had the resources to back him, even should they be willing.”

“The Count was new to court when I was first there,” Leliana added. She picked up one of Josephine’s pretty colored glass paper weights, rolling it between nimble fingers. “He was bumbling, reckless in his eagerness. From all accounts, he has not changed. He has a single surviving family member—a brother, sworn to the Chantry at a young age.”

Elayne flicked a glance toward Cullen, then quickly back toward the two women. “I recognize the name de Ghuilene. There weren’t many Orlesians in my Circle, but there was a Templar—Christophe. He was…kind.” If she closed her eyes, she could still trace out the vague shape of him. A long, thin face. Hair already greying at the temples. A strawberry birthmark blooming beneath one eye and a little smile that toyed around his thin mouth when he caught young apprentices in the library after hours.

“Kind,” Cullen said, utterly flat.

She couldn’t look at him. It was _maddening_ that she couldn’t look at him now without feeling a tug deep in her belly. “Kind,” she repeated firmly. “To all of us. I spoke with him only a handful of times, but I remember the way he’d— Well. It doesn’t matter. He wasn’t at the conclave, so far as I know, which probably means…”

“Red Templar,” Leliana said.

“Red Templar,” she had to agree. “Which gives his brother a direct connection to Corypheus. Or at least some reason to think he has a connection.”

Josephine hummed thoughtfully. “It is a possibility. Or the connection may be a coincidence. We will not know for certain how the Count came to be with such a rare device without further questioning.”

“Which I have already taken the liberty of having destroyed,” Cullen interrupted. He shifted when she glanced at him, eyes dropping to the rug between them. “Dagna reluctantly agreed to help on that score.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, wishing her voice didn’t sound quite so weak. Subdued. She was so tired, so _worn down_ that she felt like a ghost of herself—the next breath could send her drifting like coils of smoke on a breeze. “That was well done.”

She couldn’t think of anything else to say—couldn’t think of a way to break the awkward stalemate, or to divine what he was really thinking, what he wanted. Things would be so much simpler if she just knew exactly what he remembered, and what he made of those memories. Was he full of regret? Was he unable to meet her eyes because he wished it had never happened? He’d seemed almost _glad_ it was her, in the immediate aftermath of discovery, but…

 _But he was hurt_ , she told herself, fingers twisting together. _And in shock._

She couldn’t hold him to that. She just _couldn’t_.

“I will continue to question our unwelcome guest,” Leliana said as if she couldn’t sense the endless gulf between them. Or maybe she was simply chalking it down to exhaustion? Maker, when was the last time they had slept? “There will soon be answers. In the meantime, I recommend we adjourn to steal a few hours of sleep—we will need to be on our toes once the court begins to stir again.”

“We must ask them to stay for another evening,” Josephine added even as the three of them stood. Cullen, already at attention several paces away, shifted back a step, as if to keep carefully measured distance between them. _That_ was like a backhanded slap. “Though whether we host another night of the ball or simply invite them to remain in their quarters is up to you, Inquisitor.”

Another night of the ball.

Elayne looked up, and it was nearly a physical shock to meet Cullen’s eyes. His expression was closed off, unreadable, but for a moment, for the barest flicker of time, she thought she saw _something_ in his eyes. They flashed warm brown, _focused_ on her with an intensity that was heavy as a touch—and then he looked down again, deliberately, almost coldly, breaking the moment of breathless contact.

She shivered and ran her hands over her arms, the ill-fitting robe rough against her fingertips. “We will make that decision later,” Elayne said, “after we’ve had a chance to sleep. We’ll reconvene in the War Room in six hours.”

Josephine gave a low cough.

“…four hours,” Elayne capitulated with a sigh, rubbing at her brow. “Until then, get as much rest as you can.”

“No rest for the wicked,” Leliana mused, setting aside the paperweight. It cast beams of colored light—striations of blue dancing over Josephine’s tidy desk, swimming dizzily as Elayne blinked away a shimmer of tears.

Cullen had already turned and walked away; she could hear each heavy tred of his armored boots like a heartbeat. Josephine was laughing quietly. “Then we must be _very_ wicked indeed. Inquisitor,” she added as Elayne pushed herself away from the desk.

She straightened, fighting not to sway, and looked over. The soft _click_ of the door closing firmly behind Cullen felt like a blow, but she kept the flinch off her face. She’d been getting good at that over the last few hours. “Yes?” she murmured.

Josephine’s brows were drawn together, and there were shadows beneath her eyes. Her always-perfectly coiffed hair had half-fallen about her face, long curls dragging against her shoulders in fluttering coils. “Are you all right, Inquisitor? You seem…” she trailed off diplomatically.

“Fragile,” Leliana added, all too blunt. “If we turn our backs, are you going to break?”

She asked the question with a quirk to her lips, as if joking, but Elayne had worked with her Spymaster long enough to read the layers upon layers of intent in her every action. Leliana meant what she said, but she was giving Elayne an easy out—something to cling to even as the truth of her words cut just a hair too close for comfort. She _felt_ as if she might shatter at any moment; like the stained glass versions of herself, scattering across the gleaming floors in a cascade of dancing light.

“I’m tired,” she said, and the smile wasn’t as forced as she’d feared it would be, “that’s all. It’s going to take more than a few Orlesians and a pride demon to conquer me. Good night,” Elayne added, pulling away. “I’m serious—get whatever sleep you can. We’ll meet by the War Table in four hours.”

“Sleep well, Inquisitor,” Josephine said with a little smile; Leliana simply continued to watch her, eyes following her as Elayne turned and made her way back toward the Grand Hall. She kept her shoulders tight, her chin up as she swept across the floor. Sunlight was streaming through the broken windowpanes, but the glass had already been cleared and scaffolds were going up. By eveningfall, temporary panes would already be in place. There were a few members of the Inquisition scurrying about, bringing the Hall back to order, but otherwise, the room was empty.

Still, she was all too aware of glances being cast her way; Elayne kept her step even and slow as she made her way past the dais, past the throne, past the streaming light and flurry of snowflakes falling through the cracked glass—and through the door to her chambers.

She’d kept it together this long; she could wait until she was finally alone to fracture.

The _moment_ the door slid shut behind her, she slumped back with a low, broken cry. Elayne reached up to rip off the cowl, throwing it blindly. Dark hair fell around her in a messy cloud, obscuring her face as she turned to press her cheek against the cool wood, no longer fighting against the surge of helpless tears that had been threatening to fall for _hours_.

Her legs trembled, knees knocking together—only her grip on the door handle kept her from falling in a sweep of rough fabric. She clasped a hand over her mouth and screwed up her face as a sudden sob broke free, all too aware that even now, even here, she had to keep some measure of control.

Maker. _Maker_.

Elayne dropped her head back with a _thunk_ , staring up the winding steps with blind eyes. She felt as if her skin had been stretched across the fragile frame of her body, as if she were tight as a drum and echoing with waves of mounting despair. It wasn’t _fair_ to be given everything she wanted only to have it snatched from her. It wasn’t _fair_ , it wasn’t _right_ , it wasn’t—

She dragged her hand over her wet cheeks with a choked laugh, dissolving into another helpless sob, because _since when_ had her life been fair?

 _Cullen standing awkward and stiff an unbridgeable gulf away, eyes skittering from her any time she dared to look up_ , and void, was this going to be their new normal? Was this what she had to look forward to day in and day out every time she gathered her war council—remembering his mouth on her flushed skin, his capable hands spanning her body, his voice as he said _I love you_...all the while they stood at opposite ends of the table and refused to meet each other’s’ eyes?

She didn’t know what he wanted. She didn’t know what he remembered. She didn’t know anything, except that when she reached out to touch his arm once, as the four of them strode from the hall to Josephine’s office, Cullen had deliberately moved away.

As if, now, he couldn’t even bear to allow her touch.

Elayne squeezed her eyes shut, feeling again that white-hot slash of pain, as if she’d been caught full across the face with a demon’s claws. She balled one hand into a fist and dragged the other through her hair, fighting against the well of tears, fighting the tremble of her limbs and the damnable weakness that Josephine and Leliana had so easily sensed. Did they know all of it? Had they looked between Elayne and Cullen and read everything there?

Void, she hoped not. She couldn’t stand the thought of their pity in addition to Cullen’s seeming indifference.

 _He seemed so happy it was me at first,_ she thought…but then, Maker, just how long had that lasted before he began to pull away?

“Stop it,” Elayne murmured to herself, gathering the folds of her robe in one hand and pushing away from the door. She forced herself to trudge up the endless stairs toward her tower room one step at a time. When her eyes stung with the fresh tears that seemed _determined_ to come, she lifted her face to the sunlight pouring in through the slitted windows and focused past the sting of that subtle rejection. “Stop it, stop it, stop it.”

She lifted the hem and hurried up the last flight of steps, digging deep for a last burst of resolve. Her room was bright and welcoming, _quiet_ , and she dragged in a stuttering breath as she stumbled into the all-too-necessary sanctuary, trembling fingers already tearing at the row of concealed buttons. All at once, she was desperate to be out of the constricting fabric—she would tear her way free if she had to. When she dragged in a breath, it went choppy, serrated, and she was fighting against yet _another_ wave of tears no matter how hard she tried to control them.

Cullen’s eyes when he looked at her, then quickly away. The stilted, formal way he spoke. The careful distance he kept between them as if he was _afraid_ of her touch. The way he deliberately pulled away.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Elayne snarled, fingers gone clumsy with the rising swell of—Maker, it felt almost like panic, like rage, emotion bubbling hard and hot inside her breast and making it all too damned hard to breathe. She’d given up so much all her life, had quietly sat by and let the Maker take and take and take, and it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t _fair_ , she hadn’t asked to fall in love and now, now she was breaking and—

She gave a wordless cry, ripping at the placket of buttons uselessly, not caring when they went scattering across the floor. Her knees nearly gave out and Elayne slumped back against the low half-wall, choking on the sob that she refused to let herself release. She lifted her hands to cover her face, wishing she could reach back in time and unravel the threads binding them together. How much simpler would her life be if she hadn’t known she could feel this way? How much easier, brighter—less full?

Empty.

She startled when soft hands caught her wrists and tugged them aside. 

Elayne looked up, vision a blur of hot tears, Sera’s face swimming before her. The other girl was close—how had she not heard the whisper-quiet approach?—and looked worn with empathy. Her face was twisted up in mirror image pain, her brow knit as she reached out and brushed Elayne’s tangled hair from her face with a susurrus, “Shhh, hey, oy, hey now, it’s all good, innit? It’s all good. Shhh.”

Elayne tried to pull back, mortified at being caught in a moment of weakness, but Sera just tightened her grip and slowly—inexorably—reeled Elayne close. She slid one lanky arm around her waist, the other tightening across her shoulders, and Elayne fought the embrace for a shaken moment before just…crumbling forward with a hitching breath.

Sera smelled like hay and hops and something sweet. Her body was whiplash thin but _steady_ as she coiled around Elayne tighttighttight, the protective hunch of her shoulders making her feel both delicate and so incredibly sturdy against her. Elayne pressed her face into the curve of Sera’s neck, allowing herself to be drawn close and _soothed_. A calloused palm passed over her hair; Sera murmured something low and almost musical against her temple. All the world narrowed down into the sway of their bodies, the warm puff of her breath, the steady pound of her heart marking out the beats of Elayne’s own, like a metronome.

Slow. Slow. Steady. Slow.

Gradually, tension unspooling low in her belly, Elayne began to relax. The feeling of panicked hurt waned.

“Hey now,” Sera finally murmured as she swiped a hand up and down Elayne’s spine. “Better now? Find the ground? Not with your bum, though.” She pulled back to look at her. The worry was still there, the fierce protectiveness, but her lips were twitched up into a crooked smile too. “Padding’s not enough, no matter what you think.”

“How much do you know?” Elayne’s voice creaked as if she hadn’t used it in years.

The other girl’s smile deepened. “Depends on who you’re asking, innit? Come on, naked time. Let’s wash the day right off you.” 

And that…sounded pretty incredible. She was filthy, worn down, and jagged about the edges. A bath and a bed would go a long ways toward making her feel in control of herself again.

Sera batted Elayne’s hands away when she started to reach for the buttons of her robe again, nimble fingers flying across the half-torn placket. Sera was coaxing her out of her robe and the silky red dress seconds later, balling up the soft fabric before Elayne could focus on the broken chains, the stains.

Ruined. Fitting, wasn’t it, that the dress she’d worn to dance with him had been so thoroughly ruined?

“No you don’t,” Sera chided, reaching up to wipe a tear away with the rough pad of her thumb. “Not on my watch. It might’ve gone all tits up, but it’s not so bad as it looks right now, promise. Look even better from the other side of that bed, so let’s get you hopping. Bath,” she added, pointing. The far screen had been pulled back, revealing a copper tub. It had already been filled, steam coiling up even now. When Elayne drew closer, she spotted a fire rune tucked away at the far end of the tub—it would keep the water warm no matter how long she tarried.

“Oh Maker, bless you,” Elayne mumbled as she climbed into the tub. She swiped roughly at her own cheeks, but the tears had mostly dried. She felt hollowed out and paper-thin, still, but having her friend there…it mattered. It made it all seem less empty. She even laughed a little as she settled into the steaming water, watching as Sera kicked up a stool close to the head of the tub. “Are you going to watch me bathe, you great pervert?”

Sera waggled her brows. “And enjoy every minute. Nicest tits around, Cassandra excepting. Here, lemme,” she added, reaching out to gather the heavy fall of Elayne’s hair. She helped ease her against the curve of the tub, her head tipped back, hair spilling in dark waves over the rim. “I’ll get all that crap out, aye, while you soak all the hurt out of you. Asked around, after I returned,” she added, leaning down to pick up a deep washbasin. Elayne tipped her chin to watch, curious, as Sera propped it on her spindly knees, then carefully gathered Elayne’s hair up into a heavy mass before letting it fall into the murky water in dark coils. The astringent burn of spindleweed filled the air. “Talked to all my friends. They been watching you for me; had a lot to say about some fancybritches out of a fairy story.”

Elayne closed her eyes with a shaky sigh. No, of course Sera had been keeping an eye on her. That shouldn’t have been any kind of surprise. “The ending of the story leaves much to be desired.”

Sera just snorted, gently—so, so very gently—washing the dye of Elayne’s hair. It felt like a baptism, a ritual cleansing. She shivered and gripped the edges of the tub tight, memory dancing over her skin with each hot brush of the water.

Cullen’s mouth.

Cullen’s hands.

His tongue.

She bit her bottom lip and arched as Sera raked her fingers through wet hair; she imagined the dye lifting from the coils in dark clouds, drifting across the surface of the water. When she opened her eyes, she could see those same clouds—red, this time, blood flaking from her skin—floating away with each rise and fall of her breasts, her restless limbs.

The night really was, quite literally, being sloughed away piece by bitter piece.

“I told him I loved him,” she said, lightly dragging a hand down her body and flicking away the last stubborn trails of blood. Blood and sweat and caked mud beneath clinging silk: Maker what a life she led. “Before I knew.”

Sera lightly tapped her shoulder and Elayne sat forward; the water swirled around her, and her hair hung heavy as a cape across her shoulders. She should have felt vulnerable— _naked_ —here with Sera kneeling by the side of the tub, dipping a second, empty basin into the water with her…but the brush of her friend’s fingers felt soothing rather than intrusive. The way she stroked back a loose curl made something deep inside Elayne quake with gratitude.

She couldn’t have done this alone. She couldn’t have handled the silence of her own thoughts after the night she’d had.

“Tip forward, you,” Sera murmured, and Elayne closed her eyes and dropped her chin. She gasped at the first warm cascade, water pouring over the crown of her head. It splashed around her, over her, cleansing as a waterfall. She gasped out a low breath and wrapped her arms across her chest. “Did it change anything?”

Elayne made another low noise, tilting her head. She kept her eyes closed, straining to hear as Sera set aside the basin and stood. The whisper of her light tred was barely audible, but if she strained, she could hear the creak of floorboards…and somewhere below that, the sound of Skyhold settling in for a long day. When Sera reached out to touch her again, one hand gripping Elayne’s elbow, she let herself be tugged to her feet.

Water sluiced down her naked body. Her lashes flickered as she looked down—down through a streaming mass of hair back to its original blonde, familiar and yet somehow not—watching the clouds of blood and dirt and dye twist about her calves like shapes lost in an eluvian. “No,” Elayne murmured. She dropped her arms, biddable as a child as Sera wrapped her in a fluffy towel and urged her to step out of the bath. She had a sudden sense memory of a kind-faced woman—her mother, she thought, though the impression was so old, Elayne couldn’t say for sure—smiling as she toweled her dry. She’d felt safe, then. Loved. Certain there was nothing in this world or beyond that could hurt her when there was someone like _this_ to shield her.

Elayne allowed Sera to wrap the towel tighter around her, then reached out to catch her friend’s hand. She squeezed her fingers, heart brimming with gratitude. “Thank you,” she said.

“Not so hard on me to lend a hand,” Sera said, squeezing back. “Got to see your bare arse, didn’t I? Come on, you,” she added, unceremoniously dropping a second towel on top of Elayne’s head. “Let’s get you in bed. World’ll seem nicer on the other side of sleep. Been thinking, though,” she added as she tugged back the heavy blankets.

Sera toed off her own shoes and wriggled inside, leaving the covers bunched back for Elayne to follow. She paused only long enough to wrap her hair in the towel, then crawled in after. One of Sera’s arms snaked around her middle in a companionable grip—anchoring her, keeping away the waves of sorrow that kept wanting to come crashing down around her. “Thinking about what?” she murmured, burrowing close. Maker, this felt good. Maybe she really would feel better on the other side of sleep.

“Just thinking. Dangerous, right? But you got to wonder, if _you_ meant what you said on both sides, maybe he’s feeling the same right now. Thinking about you and not sure what to make of it all.”

She was too tired for that thought to hurt. “I don’t know. He seemed so… I’m too scared to ask what his distance has meant.”

“Mm,” Sera agreed, grip tightening. “Bet he’s pretty scared too. He’s got the Inquisitor, see, up on her pedestal like all the others—and then suddenly he’s got her in his arms, like real flesh and blood, and he’s loving her when everyone knows her story is heading somewhere dark. Scary, yeah, going from marble to flesh? From safe to realizing he’s loving some kind of doomed saint. You’re not supposed to love a woman from the history books. That never goes well—just look at Andraste. He’s gotta be scared. Maybe too scared to be the one to make that first move, to see if you feel the same, yeah? _Sleep_ ,” she added when Elayne opened her mouth to protest. “Overthink in the morning. Afternoon. _Whatever_.” She reached up to clap a hand over Elayne’s eyes as if that could somehow force her under. “The answer’ll be there later. Good or bad, whatever, it’ll be there. And you’ll make it through.”

“Sera—”

“ _You’ll make it through_. Whatever it is.”

Elayne didn’t bother protesting. She just sighed and curled close, soaking in her friend’s warmth, her proximity—letting herself be lulled by the even pull of Sera’s breaths. “Okay. Yeah. Sleep,” she agreed, forcing aside the questions and fears and protests still rattling about inside her aching chest. What Sera had said made a bizarre sort of sense, but she was too tired to sort through all the possibilities now. Later. When she’d had time to rest and gather her armor back around herself. “Wake me in four hours.”

“See if I will,” Sera muttered, then wrapped tight around her, as if she never planned on letting go…and they slept.

When Elayne woke Andraste knew how many hours later, the sun was low in the sky and Sera was long gone. The place where she’d rested was cool to the touch…and on her pillow was a familiar silver mask, the leather ties still burnished red with Cullen’s blood.

Elayne sat up, blankets pooling around her waist. Her breath was tight in her chest, but the sick misery was long gone—and in her mind, she could hear Sera’s voice, tinged with sleep but no less canny for all that:

_Bet he’s pretty scared too. Maybe too scared to be the one to see if you feel the same, yeah?_

She reached out slowly, almost tentatively, to brush her fingertips across the familiar arch of the cheekbones. It felt _right_ , as if she’d memorized the feel of him in just a few short days. Marcus…Cullen… _he_ had worn this mask, and he had loved her. Maybe he still did. Maybe he really was just waiting for her to make the first move.

There was only one way to find out.

Gathering the mask in trembling hands, Elayne pushed back the covers—and rose to face whatever the day brought her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this fairy tale, Elayne is Cinderella AND the prince. Take that, patriarchy!


	19. Chapter 19

She sent word for the council to gather, then spent the next ten minutes quietly struggling not to lose what little confidence she had gained. It seemed as if that silver mask watched her as she dressed, tugging on the body-skimming beige finery, then sliding her feet into a pair of matching slippers. She paused by the mirror to twist her messy curls into a high bun, tucking back a stray wisp or two as, inside, her heart thudded a desperate staccato.

_I want this_ , she thought, studying her face. Her cheeks were flushed and there were shadows beneath her eyes. Her mouth seemed swollen—or was she just imagining things?—but the potion Leliana had forced on her had closed the cuts without a single scar.

Still.

_Still._

She couldn’t help but feel she looked…different. Or maybe she just expected that she should. Rosy-cheeked and golden-haired and no longer a virgin. There should be some sign, right? Like the mark on her hand or the small scar on her chin from the first time ice had erupted from her fingers as a child. These kinds of life-altering events couldn’t just pass by without leaving a trace.

But the dye was gone as if it had never been, the potion had healed any lingering ache, and she felt worlds away from the woman she had been then. From Jenny. Elayne tipped her chin, running her fingertips along the arch of her neck; she wished she could fool herself that those could be his fingers. His lips.

Cullen.

_I want this_ , she thought again, dropping her hand. The French doors onto her balcony rattled at a sudden wind, and she swore she could hear all of Skyhold buzzing around her. The nobles would have been pacified as much as possible, but there was still a question mark hanging over the evening—one only she could answer.

Was it the right answer? Was there any way to know for sure? Was she just setting herself up for failure—for disappointment—for the long, hard fall? Was this a path that could only lead to pain? Maybe. But. He’d said he _loved_ her. When they’d been wearing masks, they’d been able to be their true selves, and they had been in love.

Maker, Sera was right: she was overthinking things. She _wanted this_.

Elayne suddenly lifted her gaze, meeting blue eyes in the mirror. “So fight for it,” she said, and forced herself to turn away.

She snagged Cullen’s mask and carefully wrapped it in a length of silk. The material felt cool against her fingertips and her hands were still trembling, but she didn’t let herself second-guess the impulse, hurrying down the steps and out of her quarters before she could. _Fleeing_ the safety of her room. The Grand Hall was awash in gold from the setting sun, the last rays of daylight streaming across its gleaming floors. A few small knots of people gathered here and there, but it was mostly, blissfully empty.

She took a steadying breath, another, fighting to hold on to Sera’s words as if they were a lifeline. But exposed and alone, it was so hard to remember that warm feeling of certainty, and she blanched a little when she glanced toward the door that would lead to the War Room.

_A few moments_ , Elayne told herself, turning away. _It isn’t cowardice to take just a few moments to collect yourself._

Needing something with which to distract herself, Elayne looked up, gaze sweeping up the dais and across the far wall. Josephine had done an excellent job covering up the fact that pitched battle had occurred here just a few short hours ago. The glass had been cleared and three beautifully painted screens covered the empty windowpanes. They depicted nature scenes, with borders of delicate gold leaf and lovers’ knots. It was so ingeniously done that Elayne had to smile—if she hadn’t known stained glass had been there, she would have sworn the choice had been deliberate.

“Well-played by our resident know-everything, isn’t it?” Dorian said from a few steps away.

Elayne didn’t turn away from her study of the apse.

He moved to join her, bared shoulder lightly bumping hers in that friendly way he had. “Of course, she’ll leave a few clues buried about to remind the court of their near-miss,” he continued. “Like one of those blasted treasure hunts, only this time the prize is much simpler: surprise! You’re still alive. And all thanks to our Inquisitor.” Dorian shook his head and turned to face her. “Please don’t forget to tithe on your way out; all donations are accepted, and you are welcome for your miserable, petty lives. All hinted and never said outright, of course.”

Elayne slowly turned to face him, saying nothing.

Dorian just smirked. “No doubt our coffers will soon be stuffed and all the history books will be updated to reflect your stunning victory. _The Battle of Skyhold_. Never mind that it was hardly enough of a fight to be worthy of a name. Unless,” he added with a laugh, “every Rift we close is guaranteed an entry into the grand records. In which case, I move that we call the last scrap in the Hinterlands _The Glorious Battle of Cassandra Pentaghast and All the Bears.”_

Elayne said nothing.

“Of course, _I_ am not the one foolish enough to tell her of such a decision. I’ll give that task to Cole. Or Varric! She already wants his head on a pike, yes? No sense in adding to her collection—and correct me if I’m wrong,” Dorian added, his dark brows climbing, “but you usually have more to say than this.”

“You don’t want me to speak,” Elayne said.

His smile was slow and warm. Genuine. A gesture between close friends. “Ah, but I assure you, I really do.”

“All right,” Elayne said, crossing her arms. Her fingers curled around the carefully wrapped mask and she fixed him with the sudden full weight of her stare. “How about I start with this: I know that you deliberately set me up three nights ago. You misled me, manipulated me, and misused my trust. And that doesn’t even begin to go into what you did to Ser Cullen.”

She had never had the pleasure of seeing Dorian backpeddle so quickly. “ _Ah._ Perhaps I was a bit hasty after all,” he said, lifting both hands in a warding gesture when she stepped closer. “If you would prefer to go back to _not_ yelling at me…”

“Why stop what I’ve barely begun?” Elayne continued to move closer, closer, a small part of her secretly pleased when _he_ continued to step away. She rarely let even a flash of temper show, no matter how sorely strained it became. Now, with this… It felt like lancing a wound, letting impossible pressure free the way tears had brought some measure of relief the night before. It felt very necessary. “You _knew_ it was me. Leliana and Josephine trusted you with that information, assuming you wouldn’t betray that trust.”

“Betray is such a hard word,” Dorian protested. He glanced quickly over his shoulder—the Grand Hall was mostly empty, but there were a few courtiers milling about, not to mention Inquisition guards. He made a face. “You know I would never do anything to hurt you.”

“What do you think _happened_?” She stopped her steady advance, pinching the bridge of her nose, then jerked her head toward the entrance to the Undercroft before turning on her heel and striding away. Dorian followed meekly; neither said a word as they pushed through the heavy door. The room was empty—almost _too_ empty. The forge had been closed up and the familiar piles of metals and runes and detritus gone. The grate had been cordoned off for a second orchestra and warm tapestries covered the walls. The rest of the floor had been left clear for dancing.

Elayne turned to face her friend.

“Elayne,” Dorian said before she could say anything. His expression was an open battlefield between earnest contrition and stubborn vanity. “You are right; I did deliberately mislead you, and Cullen. I understand if you are angry.”

“That is mighty big of you, Dorian,” she said with every bit of sarcasm she had ever learned from him.

He arched a brow, clearly appreciating the rare show of sass even if it was turned on _him_. “Be that as it may, surely you can see it was done out of friendship. You wanted an evening losing yourself in the arms of some anonymous, safe man. He wanted an evening losing himself in the arms of some anonymous, safe woman. Well,” he added with an attack of honesty, “he did when I was finishing convincing him he did. Difficult man to get to loosen up, our Cullen.”

Her stomach tightened at those words, as if they held some sort of magic. _Our Cullen_.

But Dorian was still talking. “It only made sense for the two of you to, ah, do it together. And besides all that, everyone with eyes has _known_ the two of you are blighted perfect for each other. Varric was especially insistent that we should try to nudge the two of you—”

“ _Varric?_ ” Elayne demanded, straightening. “Varric is behind this too?”

“…this is all beside the point,” Dorian said slowly.

“No, I think it very much _is_ the point, Dorian. You misled us.”

“We _helped_ you.”

“By _lying_. By letting us stumble together like a duo of fools for three nights, and… Maker, Dorian, you can’t just decide the two of us should _be together_ and trick us into making it so. Didn’t you ever think that perhaps we weren’t together not because we were too blind to find our way but because there were very good reasons we chose not to be?”

He was silent.

Elayne looked away; void take her, there were tears on her lashes again. She hadn’t meant for the buried emotion to come rising up in her chest—hadn’t even really meant to do this now—but the thought of Cullen making his way to the War Table…Cullen maybe steeling himself to face her…the idea that they would have to talk, and the fear of what he would have to say when they did…it all threatened to unmake the steely resolve she’d managed to find for herself. She felt like the beginning of an avalanche tumbling its way down the mountaintop. Feelings once bared couldn’t be locked away again.

“I love him,” she said quietly, with full, brutal honesty. “I loved him before three nights ago. I loved him before three _months_ ago. I didn’t let myself think of him that way, though, because I have to stand there with him by the War Table, listening to his counsel and making decisions that will shape the entire world. It is hard enough to hear the three disparate voices of my friends telling me what they think should be done and choosing the wisdom of one over the other. How could I possibly be unbiased if one of those voices belonged to _the man I loved?_ ”

She let out a harsh breath, eyes locked on the stone floor between them. Dorian moved close, reaching out to cup her jaw. He brushed a thumb across her cheek, wiping away the tear she hadn’t meant to shed. “You are strong enough to love him and still make all the decisions that send the major players of the world scattering for cover,” he said firmly. “You underestimate your own may-I-say incredibly intimidating willpower.”

“All right,” she murmured, flicking her eyes up to meet his. Tears clung to her lashes as she let herself finally address her greatest fear—her heaviest regret. “Maybe so. But can you claim it was a kindness to trick Cullen into being with someone who’s only going to hurt him in the end?”

“Elayne,” Dorian began.

“We all know I’m very likely not going to survive this war,” Elayne continued before he could hush her. “The rest of you may protest all you like, or deny it, or try to stuff your fingers into your ears and refuse to hear the truth, but we _all know_ that this kind of story doesn’t usually end well. And Cullen has been through so much already. Can I… If I love him, can I really do that to him? Can I be that selfish?”

“ _Elayne_.”

She turned away again, horrified at the sudden, messy unspooling of her thoughts. She always tried so hard to keep this sick fear locked up deep inside her chest, but the memory of Cullen’s eyes, the quiet confessions he’d made… It all brought that primal fear tumbling out. “Maker, no, I _can’t_ do that to him. I wasn’t supposed to love him, but I do, and I can’t, I can’t make him hurt like that after all that he’s—”

“ _Elayne!_ ” Dorian grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her back around; his brows were drawn together and his eyes burned fierce as he gripped her other shoulder and gave her a gentle shake. “There is not a single one of us who is going to stand by and let that happen.”

“We all know—” Elayne began, but Dorian cut her off with a fierce,

“We know no bloody such thing!” He gave her another little shake. “If you wish to be a martyr and give up your chance of being with a man who _obviously_ thinks the blighted world of you, then be my guest. But don’t think for a second that your friends—your mad little family—is going to stand by and watch you give your own life away like it was the world’s _due_. Fuck the world, fuck the fates, and fuck this _story_ you and Varric keep nattering on about.” 

Dorian pulled back, muttering to himself in Arcanum. When she made a near-tentative gesture to reach for him, he held up a single warning finger, then jabbed it at the carefully wrapped mask she still clutched like a lifeline. “No, I take that back. You have a very many people deeply invested in seeing you not only survive, but he _happy_. Maker take my hide, but you are going to win the day, get the man, and have a disgustingly wonderful life if we have to drag you into it every step of the way.”

“Dorian,” Elayne murmured, touched.

He made a disgusted noise and stalked away, toward the yawning vista of the Frostbacks stretching as far as the eye could see. “ _Why_ are my closest friends so very blighted noble? Maddening! Just maddening!”

She didn’t know what to say to that. She wasn’t even sure she’d be able to untangle the snarled threads of fear, hope, desire that had brought her here. Elayne wet her lips and looked down at Cullen’s mask, its shape visible through the silky fabric. She brushed her thumb across the arc of a cheekbone, remembering golden-brown eyes, the curve of his mouth, the way he drifted close as if he couldn’t bear to stay away. The murmured confession:

_“You looked like something out of a dream—back when my dreams were good.”_

Elayne closed her eyes. “I do want that,” she said again, like a mantra.

And Dorian, standing by the railing overlooking the vast snow-capped peaks, unconsciously echoed her fierce declaration from before: “Then perhaps you should _fight_ for it.”

It was easy to say and far, far harder to put into action. Despite how much she wanted to believe that with the help of her friends, the help of the entire Inquisition, she’d manage to heal the fractured world, stop Corypheus, and survive the inevitable firestorm to come…she just couldn’t picture an endgame that didn’t require some kind of sacrifice.

Wasn’t that always how this sort of thing ended? Was she willing to take the chance that it wouldn’t? 

But on the other hand, was she really going to hesitate now, after everything? Was she going to let divine accident ruin her chance of being happy? Was she really willing to stand idly by and _accept_ her supposed fate, the way she had _accepted_ her life in the Circle? All her life, Elayne had been the good daughter, the obedient mage, the symbol people needed. Was she going to lay down and accept martyrdom and never even give herself the chance to fight for the man, the life, she dreamed of?

No, Elayne decided. No, no she was fucking _not_.

“Now there’s the Elayne Trevelyan we all know and love,” Dorian said, and Elayne looked up with a start; at some point during her mental spiral and reaffirmation, he had moved close again. He smirked and reached up to brush back a loose coil of her hair. “Are you quite finished bowing to the supposed inevitable? Because if so, you have an army of supporters ready to see you safely through this, and one ex-Templar who I can _promise you_ nearly immolated from acute sexual and romantic tension over the last few days. Be a true saint and put him out of his misery, hmm?”

“I hate you,” Elayne said, not meaning a word of it. She gave him a playful push, smiling— _laughing_ —when he pressed a hand over his chest and made a mock-offended noise. “I’m not through yelling at you for tricking us. That really could have ended very, very poorly.”

“But it won’t. It’s going to end with a big, heroic kiss and riding off into the sunset together; see if it doesn’t.”

She curled her fingers around the mask and glanced over her shoulder. By now, her advisors would be waiting for her in the War Room. “I’m going to—” Elayne began, the tight clench of nerves and fear transmutating into something infinitely sweeter. Brighter. 

Dorian just shooed her, his smile melting into a smirk that probably should have gotten under her skin. Instead Elayne gave a breathless little laugh and leaned in, brushing a kiss against his cheek. “Thank you,” she said earnestly. “You and Sera. Maybe not for tricking me, but for not letting me tuck tail and run. I’ve never… This is the first time… I’m new at this,” she said. “As much as I like to think I don’t need a fairy godmother, apparently I need a legion of them after all.”

“Maker help you, even the _Warden_ is invested in your happiness. Make hay of that while you can, Sunshine.” He flapped his hand at her again. “Now go, _go_. Prince Charming has been pacing Skyhold like a caged lion, and I _do_ so want to see him put out of his misery.”

“Do you think,” she began, heart leaping in her chest—but stopped herself, pressing the mask over her lips as if to force back the words. “No. No, I need to ask _him_. Right? Right.” She took a step back, feeling foolish, but also calmer than she had for what felt like ages. The steely resolve she’d tried to affect earlier had crumbled and been reborn into something that felt more natural against her skin.

More _hopeful._

She was always strongest when she had her friends behind her. Leliana, Josephine, Sera, Cole, Dorian, Varric, _Blackwall_ , and possibly more…

Elayne turned on her heel and vaulted up the steps. She slammed through the Undercroft door and ran across the gleaming Grand Hall, mindful of Vivienne’s fond disapproval drifting down from her promenade. That only made a sudden bright and nervous laugh rise high in her throat, and Elayne ducked her head as she hurried through the doors to Josephine’s office. She vaulted up the short steps and stumbled to the huge War Room doors, heart pounding; they were cracked open, waiting. Inside, she could hear the voices of her advisors.

She could hear his voice.

The sound of it drew her to a stop, heart lurching helplessly in response. He was no longer speaking in the flat accent of Kirkwall, rich voice once again entirely Ferelden, but he wasn’t sounding as _stilted_ as he had earlier in the day when giving his initial reports. Alone with Leliana and Josephine, Cullen was simply Cullen, and it felt so good to hear him. Elayne stayed hidden behind the door, one hand pressed flat against the wood as she listened to the wry drawl of his tone.

How had it taken her so long, and so much subterfuge, to realize that the mere sound of his voice rocked through her like the vibration of a thunderclap? If it turned out he really didn’t want this…

No. She wasn’t going to let herself spiral into doubt again. She faced demons and rifts and ancient magisters turned darkspawn without a qualm. She could face the man she loved—who’d said he loved her—with the full breadth of what she felt and accept whatever truth she read in his eyes. …though seeing how they likely wouldn’t be able to eek out a moment’s privacy for hours yet, the trick would be figuring out how to do it without her other two advisors catching on.

She’d worry about that bridge when she reached it.

Squaring her shoulders, pulling the mantle of the Inquisitor mentally back around her, Elayne pushed against the heavy oak and slipped into the room.

All three advisors went quiet when she entered, looking up from the document they were studying. Josephine smiled in warm welcome immediately; Leliana tipped her head to study her face, then gave a small nod.

Cullen immediately dropped his gaze.

“Sorry I’m late,” Elayne said, refusing to take that as a sign. She nudged the door shut with her hip, waiting until she heard the latch before moving to what had become her default side of the table. Her three advisors drifted apart, each taking point in their usual positions—and that little habit shouldn’t have been enough to make her smile. “I ran into Dorian on my way.”

“Ah,” Cullen said, looking up with a strained, startled expression. “And, ah, what did Dorian have to say?”

_What did you say to Dorian that you’re so desperate for him not to share?_ Elayne wondered, hope winging in her chest again.

“Nothing I didn’t need to hear,” Elayne murmured, catching his eyes. He was the first to look away, but it felt so good that he wasn’t trying to keep such a steely distance between them anymore. Or maybe, she realized, _she_ was the one who was no longer interpreting his _discomfort_ as distance.

Maker, she really was six layers of fool when it came to this man.

“What do we have to report?” she asked, fighting to keep her voice even—and she did her best to listen and focus despite the frantic thrumming of her pulse. Questioning of de Ghuilene was continuing apace; Leliana was convinced they’d have answers soon. Soldiers had reported back from the high peaks of Skyhold; the only _person_ they’d found was Solas bundled up in furs and Dreaming in the shelter of a shallow cave.

“Left undisturbed,” Cullen to added, “though one of my men remained behind as guard, just in case.”

Most pressingly, the nobles were growing increasingly restless as the hours ticked by—too frightened to leave Skyhold and too used to constant stimulation to patiently wait until it was deemed safe to depart. “I have been doing my best to keep our guests satisfied,” Josephine said with a little sigh, “but I am afraid that there may very well soon be trouble. These men and women—they do not take well to being told what they _can_ and _cannot_ do.”

“They need a distraction,” Elayne agreed. “Or maybe that’s not the word we want to use. They need a _celebration_.”

“Of the grand Battle of Skyhold,” Josephine said.

Leliana made a low, scoffing noise. “Never mind that it was not so grand nor so dearly won.”

“Be that as it may,” Josephine said, casting her friend an exasperated look, “many of our guests have not come so close to a rift or a demon before. They were terrified, and now that the threat has passed, they are exultant. Giving them a celebration of the battle would not be a bad idea.”

“A fourth night of the ball,” Elayne murmured, hyperaware of the way Cullen sharply focused on her at those words. “You suggested that before; I feel… I feel we should do it.”

Josephine let out a breath, smiling. “It would be a wise move, Inquisitor. A _triumph_. Everything is already in place—I took the liberty of making sure we were ready and waiting should you make that decision. All that remains is to alert our guests.”

“And in the morning,” Leliana added, leaning against the table, “to have their carriages ready to take them _away_ from here with every assurance that the roads back to Val Royeaux are clear and safe for travel.”

“I will have men stationed along the major highways as added assurance,” Cullen said.

Elayne toyed with the wrapped mask, fighting not to blush. “Yes, that sounds perfect; thank you.”

“If that is all,” Josephine began, moving away from her usual spot.

“Actually.” Elayne stopped, feeling the heat bloom across her features no matter how hard she tried to control it. “There are a few other, small matters.” Josephine drifted back into place, quill poised in question over her tablet. “Leliana, will you, ah, be willing to play the role of Inquisitor for one last evening?”

Both Leliana and Josephine jerked their heads to look at Cullen; for his part, Cullen was flushing just as hard as Elayne. His eyes were locked to the table with its huge map and little iron pieces. “I would be happy to,” Leliana said slowly, gaze dragging between Cullen and Elayne. “Though I wasn’t aware the Commander knew of our agreement.”

_She’s putting together the pieces_ , Elayne thought. Even though her Spymaster and Diplomat had deliberately turned their eyes and ears away from _Jenny of Starkhaven_ for the last three nights, they couldn’t have failed to witness her last spectacular dance. The memory of the crowd’s laughter and applause were enough to make her want to curl up in a little ball and hide somewhere for weeks.

“Um. Thank you,” she said.

“As luck would have it,” Josephine added slowly, “I ordered two additional gowns…just in case.”

Trust Josephine to be prepared for _any_ eventuality. “That was good of you; thank you, Josephine.”

Leliana leaned forward, brows arched. “Does this mean we will be graced with another stunning display of Starkhaven’s native dance?” she teased. Next to her, Cullen made a strangled noise, and Leliana’s coy smiled shifted into a knowing smirk. Oh yes, she’d definitely figured it out.

Elayne wet her lips, daring a glance at Cullen. He was flushed bright red, eyes fixed hard on the row of iron pieces in front of him. She had no idea what he was thinking. But she wasn’t going to let that stop her.

_This is it_ , Elayne thought as she began to unwrap the mask with trembling fingers. _This is where my story has been leading._ “I hope so,” she murmured, forcing herself to let down her own guards, her own fears, her own insecurities and just trust that she was doing the right thing. She let the silky cloth drift from suddenly nerveless fingers and carefully set Marcus’s silver mask on the table in front of her. It caught the last light pouring through the high windows. “If he can be found.”

Cullen looked up slowly to meet her eyes.

“Oh no,” Josephine said, real disappointment in her voice. “Have you lost him?”

_Have I?_ Elayne couldn’t read his expression; he was good at closing it off when he wanted to, needed to. Back in that private loft, he had allowed himself to be vulnerable. He had let her in. Would he be willing to let her in now?

The decision was his. She would ask the question and let Cullen answer. Considering everything going on in their lives, considering the obstacles between them, the uncertain future, the _struggles_ they would have to face day after day, the understandable fears and doubts he may have…it only seemed right that she make that first move and leave him the power to accept or decline with as little pressure as possible.

“I don’t know,” Elayne said. “Maybe. But maybe he can be found again if he _wants_ to be. I would very much like to dance with him again. Ser Cullen, would you—ah—undertake this mission?”

There. All her cards were on the table, and her heart along with them.

The War Room was utterly silent. It was _so_ quiet, Elayne could hear the rush of her blood, the pounding of her heart. She drew in a slow breath and let it out in a stuttery sigh, fighting to hide the terrified-hopeful tremors running through her. Cullen was just _frozen_ there, starting at her as if stricken.

Then he cleared his throat and rubbed at the back of his neck in an achingly familiar gesture. “Ah, yes. Of course. Right away.” He made an aborted gesture, paused, then picked up one of his iron pieces. “Should I…?”

They had run so many missions, the three pieces moving across the board as Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen accepted and completed objectives that it was at once expected and _bizarre_ to see him placing the gauntlet that represented his Forces over Skyhold. Leliana made an amused noise and Josephine’s brows were faintly arched, but Elayne was focused squarely on Cullen and that single piece of iron that meant…could mean…so very much.

“Right,” Elayne said, feeling a little lightheaded. “Good. Thank you. Um. Good luck finding him, though if you can’t, I’ll— It’s— Um.”

“Words?” he murmured, eyes on hers.

Her stomach twisted in hopeful pleasure. “Words,” she agreed, then fluttered a hand up to touch her flaming cheek.

“Not to interrupt,” Leliana added, coming around the table, “but if we are to get everything ready in so short a time, we must begin _now_. Inquisitor, if you would,” she said, hand falling to Elayne’s waist in a friendly gesture.

Josephine came around to take her other side, eyes bright— _dancing_. “Yes, we must hurry. Neither gown has been properly fitted, and there is _so much_ to do. Is there dye enough for a fourth night? Leliana, is there any in storage that…”

She continued talking as the two women swept Elayne out of the room, but her words trailed away, became a musical rush of meaningless noise as Elayne glanced over her shoulder to catch a last glimpse of Cullen. He had come around the table as they moved through the heavy double doors, and the silver mask was in his hands. He looked up as if he could feel her gaze like a touch, and…something…sizzled between them as their eyes met.

The stiff formality was gone from his frame. His golden-brown eyes were full of an almost-shy emotion, and his mouth—familiar scar pulling at his upper lip—curved into a smile. He lifted the mask a little, in his own kind of answer.

…then he rubbed the back of his neck again and murmured something that sounded very much like a heartfelt, “Maker’s breath.”

And that was all the answer she needed. There _was_ going to be one more night of the ball, one more night to be utterly free, but this time she was going to be there not as the Inquisitor, not as Jenny of Starkhaven, but as Elayne Trevelyan.

And Cullen would be waiting for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strap in for the last couple of chapters! There will be dancing! Heartfelt talks and confessions! Kissing! And probably some smut, because why not?
> 
> The glass slipper/silver mask has made its appearance and now it's happily ever after time!


	20. Chapter 20

Her heart was racing. When she lifted a hand to her throat, her fingers actually _trembled_ the way they never had before a dragon fight. It felt as if her stomach were in constant freefall, excitement and jittery nerves bubbling up inside as the seconds ticked by.

Through the thick wood, Elayne could hear the hum of the orchestra. It echoed in time with her pulse.

She dropped her chin, lashes flickering, a few loose— _blonde_ —curls fluttering across her cheeks. That had been a mistake. Right? She might not feel so anxious about stepping out there now if she had just one more layer to her disguise. “Maybe I should,” she began, but Sera just scoffed and reached past her for the door.

“ _Piss_ on that, aye,” her friend said, throwing it open and giving Elayne a liberal nudge. “Not letting you would-could-should your way outta another hour, right? Got money riding on how far you’ll let metalbritches get on the dance floor.”

“You do not!” Elayne hissed, rounding on her. The entrance to her private chambers had been discretely blocked off by a heavy velvet drapery, so they were still protected from prying eyes and ears. But it wasn’t thick enough to muffle the bright laughter of the crowd, the sound of skirts brushing the floor in tempo with the waltz, and accented voices rising into a roar that filled the Grand Hall more fully than a pride demon’s bellow. Elayne grabbed at Sera’s hands, but Sera just gave her another firm shove. “Maker, Sera, please tell me you do not.”

Sera laughed. “And who’d I bet with anyway, then? Dorian’s been busy as a tit, and Bull n’ Blackwall’re fucked off Maker knows where.” She tilted her head. “Could’ve tried Cole, but that’s like betting with the wind, aye? No matter what you do, it’s always going to find its way up your skirts.”

“That…” Elayne brushed back a strand of hair (she knew, she _knew_ she should have taken the dye; now that she was steps away from the ball, she felt almost naked without it) and shot Sera an exasperated look. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“I know, right?” Sera reached up to snag the back of Elayne’s neck—careful not to cut delicate skin with ragged nails—and pulled her in until their foreheads pressed together. She didn’t say anything more. Instead, she simply took a deep breath and held it before exhaling. This close, Elayne could smell the sweet mint of Sera’s breath. If she let herself follow the steady rise and fall of her breast, Elayne’s own heart would surely slow to match its tempo.

Which was, she realized with a grateful twist of her heart, likely the idea.

So she closed her eyes and let herself relax, following the steady in and out of Sera’s breaths. In. Pause. Out. In. Pause. Out. It was a meditation as soothing as any Solas could have shown her. Slowly, slowly, slowly, her pulse began to normalize. Slowly, slowly, slowly, she began to relax. Elayne slipped a hand around Sera’s waist, squeezing in gratitude.

“All better, then?” Sera murmured.

“All better.” She let out a little sigh and straightened. “I’m not scared of what he’ll say,” she said, suddenly needing to know for certain that Sera understood. “I’m not scared of _him_ , period. I just feel… It was different, the other nights. I was someone else, at least as far as the court was concerned.”

Sera tilted her head. “There something all scary about being Elayne Trevelyan?”

She shrugged, feeling the flush spreading across her cheeks. “I don’t know. I was taken as a child; I haven’t been able to _be_ her often enough to say for sure.”

“Hm,” Sera said, studying her for a long minute. Elayne _should_ have been able to read the shift in her expression. If she hadn’t been so thrown off-balance by the past few days, she would have. “Guess there’s one way to fix that, then, innit?” 

And then suddenly, with a wide, dazzling grin, Sera planted her hands on Elayne’s shoulders and _shoved_ her out into the ballroom.

Elayne gave a little squawk, barely stifled in time, as she pitched inelegantly through the heavy curtains. She straightened from her stumble, grabbing at the sweep of her train and _glaring_. Behind the curtains, drifting from the dark haven of her quarters, she could have sworn she heard Sera’s distinctive snicker.

“I’m going to glue your smalls to your ladybits,” Elayne muttered, squaring her shoulders and forcing herself to step out into the dizzy swirl of the ball. There was no point trying to sound the retreat now; thus exposed, the only route to take was forward. “See if I don’t.”

Head held high, she joined the glittering exuberance of the court in full swing.

The fourth night of the ball was filled with an almost frantic gaiety. Men and women moved about the floor in a dazzle of colorful silks. They looked like birds in flight to Elayne, or brilliant-hued flowers bobbing in the breeze. Each thrum of the music sent them shifting and whirling—blues and reds and greens and violets bled together in an endless undulation.

Laughter echoed up to the vaulted ceilings, and the music seemed louder than it had before, as if even the orchestra had thrown themselves into the desperate _joy de vivre_ in the wake of The Battle of Skyhold. When she stepped into the colorful, maddened crowd, Elayne had a sense of being a breath of stillness at the center of a maelstrom—Winter’s Grasp cooling the frenzy of battle.

Tonight?

Tonight she was dressed in starlight.

The dress Josephine had magically unearthed was done in the Free Marcher style, fitted bodice snug all the way to the tempting flare of her hips before spilling out into sweeping layers of frothy white skirt. It floated around her, light as air, in direct contrast to the delicate silver-and-gold-embroidery that followed the curve of her hip, her waist, her breasts all the way up to an elegant shoulder-baring collar and down the long, sheer sleeves. Tiny metallic disks and prismatic gems had been sewn into the fabric, catching the candlelight in a blinding dazzle every time she moved, as if _she_ were light itself.

A complicated twist of golden chains followed the line of the collar, tiny multi-faceted stones dripping from each delicate loop. Two larger stones held the clasp of her cloak, which spilled in a shining cascade of glittering fabric. It trailed behind her in a train, weighted down by jewels and metal platelets yet thin as a whisper. Her mask was white embroidered with gold, and delicate gold and silver chains swooped from the ends of her circlet, prismatic jewels nestled within the curling mass of her long blonde hair.

She felt powerful in her Marcher dress. She felt exposed. She felt…

_Hopeful._

Tonight she would know for certain how he felt, one way or the other.

Elayne wet her reddened lips and slowly moved through the crowd. She kept dead center of the hall, scanning faces as she drifted—searching for that familiar silver mask. The swirl of dancers confused the eye, made her think she spotted him again and again, only to feel a stab of disappointment when she met the eyes of a stranger. After long minutes—what felt like hours—she stopped at dead center of the ball and turned in a slow circle, _searching_ …and saw nothing. He was nowhere to be found.

Was this her answer?

_No, you can’t give up yet. He might still be here; it could take an age to find him,_ she reminded herself fiercely, even as she feared the worst. She was standing still in the center of the dance floor, uncertain which way to go. The dancers flowed around her like a river and she the eddy. There were appreciative eyes on her, but they were shallow and glancing; no one recognized her for who she was. It was amazing how easy it could be to be lost amongst them, even without the full protection of her disguise.

And then, a sudden, horrifying thought struck her: what if Cullen were searching for her as _Jenny_? What if he were scouring the crowd as well, looking for a tumble of dark hair, a flash of red dress? Oh Maker, what if he wanted her but didn’t know how to _find_ her? She needed to go back. She needed to get the dye and, and, and _fix_ this before it, she, ruined everything. Oh Maker, why hadn’t she considered this?

Breathless, thoughts a confused jumble of sudden fear and doubt, Elayne turned back toward the dais, one hand jerking to her throat where her pulse was suddenly racing, the other gripping the long fall of her train; she took a quick, panicked step toward the back of the hall…

…and jerked to a stop when a hand closed over her own.

Elayne went very still again, as if frozen in place. She was facing the dais, one hand pressed to her bared throat, the other flung out behind her—clasped between warm, calloused fingers that were so unbelievably familiar she couldn’t possibly have any doubt. Her entire body _thrummed_ at the contact, and she drew in a ragged breath when Cullen swiped a thumb over her pulse…then slowly tightened his grip and tugged her around, reeling her inexorably back to him.

She looked up as she turned, lips parted, and the sight of him was enough to steal her breath. The silver mask was in place, as familiar as ever, but everything else had changed. Gone was the auburn dye, the putty that disguised his scar, the blue velvet coat. Gone was everything she associated with Marcus, and in its place was _Cullen_. 

Broad. Tall. _Strong_ in a coat of blood red and gold, tawny fur pauldrons rising in a proud ruff across his shoulders like a lion’s mane. The coat was open, revealing a gold waistcoat fitted to the hard lines of his body, white shirt unbuttoned to reveal his throat. Black leathers clung to his powerful thighs all the way down to high, fitted black boots. Hints of gold shone amongst the complicated buckles there.

Maker, he was gorgeous.

“I,” Elayne began, her voice breaking before she could say more.

Cullen stepped in, bridging the small distance between them. “ _Please_ tell me I didn’t read this wrong,” he murmured; his voice was low and rough, enough to made her shiver. _Maker_ that voice. “I’ve been driving myself mad with doubt ever since… Well. Ever since I first laid eyes on you, if I’m to be honest.”

She let out a startled breath; she was trembling, legs almost too weak to hold her as he drew his thumb across her palm again and again.

“I’d always meant to tell you. I _wanted_ to for a very long time, but it never was… But then, earlier today, at the War Table, you— You seemed like you might want this too. That you might…” He swallowed. “Put me out of my misery, I beg you; tell me I haven’t misread your intent.”

She couldn’t speak, voice caught in her throat. Instead, Elayne gave a small shake of her head—and closed her fingers over his.

The _look_ in his eyes, the relief, the gratitude, the way the tension bled out of him as if she had put to rest a long-held terror…Maker, that would stay with her forever. She could hear her blood rushing, could feel the erratic pounding of her heart as Cullen searched her face—as he _drank her in_ as if starved for the chance to openly look at her like this. 

“How long?” she managed.

He gave a strangled laugh. “You wouldn’t believe me.” But then, when she just tilted her head, he added, “The breach was in the sky and we were fighting for our lives—and suddenly the air went very cold. I could _hear_ the ice crystals forming, oddly musical, slowing the demon, and I knew help had come. But then I looked up and I _saw you_ dressed in ragged green leathers, face smudged with blood and soot, worry and ferocity in every line of your body and I-I couldn’t look away. Even as I spoke to Cassandra, after, I couldn’t take my eyes off you. I thought maybe I’d gone mad.”

“Cullen,” she murmured, closing her fingers tight around his. She wet her lips, and the way his eyes dropped to her mouth sent a shiver of heat licking across her skin. “I…couldn’t look away from you either. I haven’t ever since.”

He let out a shaky breath and dipped his head closer to hers. The music, the swirling dancers, the high gaiety of the evening—none of it mattered. None of it existed now. There were only gold-brown eyes on hers, his breath on her uplifted face…one big hand reaching up to lift a coil of hair, the way he had when he’d been injured. “I’m glad,” he said. “It’s hard for me to believe it, but I am so void-taken glad.” Then, with another short exhalation, “Maker’s breath, but you are beautiful. And I can hardly believe that—That I— _Bother_. And here the words were coming so easily for a moment there.” He looked down, then up again through his lashes as if fighting between the impulse to be bold or bashful.

She understood the conflicting emotion. This was the man she loved; the man who said he loved her. No more barriers between them, no more half-truths. And yet… It was _so hard_ to reconcile the memory of his voice raised in passion…with the one of it raised in battle. His eyes burning with emotion…with his cooly assessing gaze as he moved iron pieces across the War Table.

She’d been able to be forward and reckless with Marcus because there was nothing to lose between them. With Cullen, there were months of mutual respect and friendship. There were memories of struggling for their lives at Haven, of being carried through the snow in its bloody aftermath, of his raised voice as she was made Inquisitor, his little growl of annoyance as he read bothersome reports, the way he rubbed the bridge of his nose when the symptoms of his withdrawal became a sharp-edged knife digging at the corners of his mind, and…

And _so much more_.

She looked up with a start when he brushed his knuckles across her cheek, her eyes locking with his. There was an unwavering warmth and…and _sadness_ in his eyes, Elayne realized. How had she never noticed that before? “What are you thinking?” he murmured.

“I’m thinking,” Elayne said slowly, “that I’m the biggest fool in Thedas for not realizing I’ve loved you all along.”

Cullen pulled back at that, startled—but he wasn’t pulling _away_. That was the key distinction, Elayne realized, and she gave a breathless little laugh even as she reached up to twine her arms around his neck.

They’d been so busy seeing what they expected to see all this time, hiding the truth from themselves and each other. Now, even wearing masks, she could see Cullen so very, very clearly.

“Is that a surprise to you?” she said, tipping her face up to his.

He dropped his hands to her waist—big and strong and warm even through layers of fabric. Cullen drew a breath even as he tugged her closer, pulling her deep into his arms. The soft fur brushed her skin, and her cheeks burned at the way his eyes drank in her features as if, now that he didn’t have to hide the hunger in his eyes when he looked at her, he couldn’t get enough. “Yes,” he said; his voice was pitched low, a deep rumble nearly lost beneath the high, sweet notes of the orchestra. “It’s always a surprise when something good happens in my life. But I’m not going to let that stop me.”

“Good,” she breathed, tipping her face up. They were so close she could feel the heat of his breath gusting across her parted lips. “Cullen…”

“ _Elayne_.” Not Jenny. Not Herald. Not Inquisitor. Just _Elayne._

Elayne closed her eyes, toes curling within delicate slippers at the pleasure of that sound. “I like hearing my name on your lips.”

“Is that all you want on my lips?” he said, and Elayne gave a breathless laugh, blinking up at his wicked flash of a smile. “Sorry,” Cullen added, grin widening; it was so good to see him so unabashedly _happy_. “Having Dorian for a friend has its consequences, I fear. I’ve learned to have something of a wicked tongue.”

“Oh, I remember your wicked tongue all right,” Elayne purred, deliberately sultry. The sudden flame of color that spread like falling mist across his cheeks stole another laugh from her. “Dorian’s _my_ friend, too. Looks like he and Sera have absolutely ruined us for polite company.”

“Shameful,” Cullen said, big hands restlessly spanning the curve of her waist. Coils of heat unspooled wherever he touched, twining through her limbs, her stomach, her suddenly-aching breasts. “Just shameful.”

Elayne swallowed a low noise and arched subtly into the caress. Her nipples had pulled tight in response, and she felt… Maker, she felt flushed all over. She squeezed her thighs together, wondering if he could tell how easily she responded to him.

Maybe. Maybe that explained the tiny curve of his lips or his own quickened breath. Or maybe he was still learning how to read the subtle tides of her response—either way, when she swayed toward him, he moved to meet her. Both arms slid around her waist, hoisting her close. She twined her arms tighter around his neck and dug her fingers into tawny fur and golden hair.

“Do you still love me?” Elayne whispered.

Cullen tipped his face even closer until their foreheads rested together. “More than reason,” he said, words felt as much as heard.

Her heart spasmed in her chest, and she almost whispered _kiss me_. But at the last moment she swallowed back the words, took a deep breath—and rose up onto her toes to kiss him instead.

His mouth was soft, _familiar_ already, and Elayne gave a low cry and pressed in. She could feel the hard planes of his body against hers, could feel the way his muscles tightened in response; his lips parted, welcoming, and Elayne licked into his mouth with a shudder, heat blooming deep inside at the first brush of his tongue.

Hot. Slick. Gliding against hers in a way that made her whole body ache. Elayne sank her fingers into Cullen’s hair and stroked deeper, _deeper_ , tiling her head for a better angle and swallowing the hungry noises they made. She restlessly arched up, breasts dragging against the red of his coat, and fuck, _fuck_ , she was getting wet just from the clever twist of his tongue, the way he scored his teeth along her length then gently sucked away the sting.

She remembered his mouth on her, his tongue flicking against the sensitive folds of her cunt—teasing across her clit—and the sense-memory was so strong she actually felt a throb of response. Elayne whined deep in her throat, squeezing her thighs together restlessly as she _kissed him_ with everything she had. Cullen responded eagerly, near desperately; his fingers dug into the small of her back as he twined their tongues over and over and over.

Then he broke the kiss, one hand lifting to tangle in her golden curls; she gasped when he pulled her head back, arching to bare the line of her throat in immediate surrender. The rasp of his stubble felt incredible as he mouthed his way down her throat. His tongue trailed across the join of her shoulder, earning a full-body quiver.

Maker, the feel of him. The way he could unmake her with just tongue and teeth and restless hands.

“Please,” she said, pushing upwards, rubbing against his hard frame with tiny, desperate undulations. Her breasts and cunt throbbed in time with her racing heart; she could feel the hard jut of his cock against her belly, and it was driving her insane. “ _Please_ , Cullen, I need… I…”

“How do you do this to me?” he growled against the bared sweep of her skin. His teeth raked the tight line of her bared shoulder, and Elayne had to fight to swallow back a too-loud moan. “Just the sight of you is enough to…” 

He stopped.

Cullen dragged in a ragged breath and slowly pulled back. Elayne tried to hold on, wanting to _cleave_ their bodies together, but she stilled when he looked around them with a wry pull of his scarred mouth. “Forget sense,” he finished. “ _Maker_. We’re still in the middle of a crowd, aren’t we?”

_That_ surprised a breathless giggle from her, and Elayne pressed her face against Cullen’s chest to muffle the sudden embarrassed-hysterical laugh. Again. It had happened _again_. “At least,” she managed between gasps, “no one is _applauding_.”

“Give them time, the great pervy louts,” he said with a teasing grimness, and Elayne could no longer hold back a peal of laughter. She looked up into his eyes, so happy it was like sunbreak within the fragile cage of her chest; it was like the Waking Sea roiling and pitching inside her stomach; it was a thousand and one similes that could never be grand enough, big enough, to fully encapsulate the way she was feeling right now.

His lips were quirked and she knew from the look in his eyes that there would be fine lines framing them if only he weren’t wearing that mask.

She suddenly, desperately needed to see his face.

The happy, breathless laughter slowed, stilled, went quiet in her chest as she rested her hands against the soft nub of his velvet coat and felt his heart pounding still just a little too fast beneath her fingers. She felt that tempo to her very bones.

“Maker, look at you,” he said after a time, brushing back another coil of her hair. “And here I thought you couldn’t possibly get more beautiful.” Cullen leaned closer, eyes never leaving hers. “Happiness is a good look on you.”

“Get used to it,” she said, turning her face just enough to brush her lips across his palm. “If things go as I hope, you’re going to be seeing a lot more of it.”

“And what are your hopes?” There was no mistaking the emotion threading through his words—the hope of his own. Had she ever thought this man difficult to read? Maker, what a fool she’d been.

Elayne brushed the fingers of one hand across the soft fur of his pauldrons and clasped his other hand in hers. When she gave him a little push, Cullen fell instinctively in step—big hand spanning her hip, the other clasping her fingers with infinite gentleness. They moved into the swelling steps of the dance as easy as breathing, and it was like giving herself to the river: she was lost to the current.

Figures swirled around them in a colorful blur, and with every step they took, her skirts moved like sea foam around their legs. The faceted jewels sewn into her bodice and long, sweeping train caught the light and refracted it across the obsidian floor, the other dancers, their upturned faces. The magic of that—the sudden, unexpected bursts of prisms flitting there and gone again in a dizzying dance of their own—was so beautiful, so _perfect_ , it almost hurt to see. “I hope,” Elayne began, watching Cullen’s face and feeling her cheeks heat at the awed emotion she saw there, “that after this last dance, we go somewhere where we can talk. That we will work through all the obstacles and objections we might anticipate. That we will figure out a way to keep this—to keep us. No matter what.”

“We can’t go back,” Cullen said, spinning her out in a brilliant burst of light. “ _I_. I can’t go back.”

She spun back effortlessly into his arms, feeling the spike of heat when their bodies came crashing together. “Neither can I,” she said, lashes dipping. “I don’t want to.”

The song was reaching its crescendo; their last dance was nearing its end.

“Cullen,” she began, uncertain what she meant to say but knowing she _needed_ to end this last perfect moment in a way that would imprint itself on her memories forever. If she was going to fight near-inevitable martyrdom, she’d have to have something powerful tucked away inside to keep her going. “I… I…”

She had no _words_. But as if sensing her need, Cullen pulled her against him during the last swell of the music and dropped his head close to whisper:

“You’re the first good thing that’s happened to me in a very long time. I couldn’t bear it if I lost you.”

And that—

_that_

—would surely see her through whatever darkness lay ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Either talking or smut next. Or a mix! Let me know if you have any requests for things they talk about or, um, do. ;)
> 
> Last couple of chapters!


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience--and thank you to everyone for your kind words. My mother is feeling much improved and everything is going back to a very lovely normal again. :)
> 
> Art in Chapter Six by the incredible Feylen. Visit her tumblr to tell her how amazing she is! http://feylen.tumblr.com/
> 
> Art in Chapter Seven and Twenty-One by the incredible Aud-works. Visit her tumblr to shower praise on her! http://aud-works.tumblr.com
> 
> Art in Chapter Thirteen by the amazing NoImNotEvenSorry. http://noimnotevensorry.tumblr.com/ Go check out their tumblr and tell them how awesome they are!
> 
> Art in Chapter Eighteen by the amazing IrmaPrunesquallor. Go to http://irmaprunesquallor.deviantart.com/ to tell them how incredible they are!

She kept a hand tucked into the crook of his arm as the song ended—flushed and flustered and fighting to hide a grin. She _knew_ Leliana and Josephine (Dorian? Sera? Cole, certainly) were watching them now. Imagining their encouraging smiles was both thrilling and mortifying; Maker, sometimes her friends made her feel like a fumbling child tangled in too many apron strings.

And sometimes they made her feel like she could do anything.

Like she could do _this_.

“Take me somewhere private?” Elayne asked, tipping her head toward Cullen’s. She flushed even as she made the request, and she could only imagine what those watchful friends might make of _that_. But she’d rather face their playful jibs if it meant she could take off this final mask with the man she’d never dared allowed herself to want before. “As beautiful as this has been, I think I’ve had my fill of balls.”

“Thank the Maker,” Cullen said with enough feeling to steal a laugh from her. He grinned back, unabashed, one hand falling over hers as he led her off the floor. There was something about the brightness in his eyes, the way he lit up like burnished gold that made him seem young again.

_The world is determined to make husks of us all_ , Elayne thought, tipping her face toward the flickering candlelight one last time as they passed from the ballroom. The next song was starting, and the rustle of dresses brushing the gleaming floors, the _whisk_ of slippered feet falling into the familiar steps of the dance, the low laughs and whispers and intrigues…they all fell behind her in a crashing wave of sound as Cullen held open the door leading from Solas’ rotunda.

She stepped outside; he closed the door. There was silence.

It was snowing again, flakes falling lazily from the beautifully hazy sky. Elayne drew in a deep breath, then another, adjusting to the stillness of the night. When Cullen took her hand in his, she curled their fingers together and allowed another slow smile to break free. They were standing very close—close enough that she could feel the heat of his body, could smell leather and metal and mint. Familiar scents. Evocative enough to send a coil of heat winding its way through the pit of her stomach.

She’d kissed this man. She’d thread her fingers through his hair. She’d arched helplessly as he drove inside of her, and she’d cried out as she unraveled beneath his fingers, his tongue.

_Maker_.

“Hi,” Elayne said, then ducked her head with a hot blush, laughing at herself. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what to say to you.”

“I’ve been wracking my brain for the last full minute,” Cullen admitted, gently squeezing her hand. She squeezed back, heart giving a lurch in response, and allowed him to lift it to his mouth. He had turned to face her, snowflakes caught in his golden hair, eyes locked on her face as he brushed his lips across her knuckles. His breath puffed white clouds against her fingertips; the touch of his mouth sent her pulse racing.

They were bracketed on all sides by stars visible through drifts of snow clouds. Skyhold stood sentinel, and a wind whispered down from the Frostbacks, buffeting her skirts, her loose blonde curls. Elayne wet her lips, cold and yet flushed _hot_ all at once, and deliberately stepped forward into Cullen’s space. She watched his face as he straightened, wishing she could see more of it. Wishing she could see everything.

Realizing with another slow curl of pleasure that she _could_.

Elayne reached up for that familiar silver mask, thumbs running along the bottom curve before dipping into the crease, slowly pushing it up. Cullen let out a noise that was barely more than a puff of breath; he closed his eyes as she pushed the mask up and off, only blinking them open again when his face was bare.

It was electrifying, seeing him like this. The familiar scar was dark in shadow; his eyes were hooded, wanting. Had anyone ever looked at her like this before, with so much naked desire and love?

_No_ , Elayne thought, letting the mask slip from her fingers. _No, no, never._

_There’s only been him._

“May I?” Cullen murmured even as he reached for her own mask. Elayne closed her eyes, face tilted up towards him. Her heart was fluttering like a mad thing in her chest and she drew in an unsteady breath as his fingers worked to untie the knot. She bit her lower lip at the first tell-tale sag of the mask, feeling… Maker, feeling as if he were stripping her bare out here on this battlement and not simply removing a mask.

In a way, she supposed he was…and there was no simply about it, was there?

She held her breath as he cupped the edges of her mask, then let it out in a slow, shaken release as he lifted it away. She felt the first kiss of snowflakes against her naked cheeks, catching in her lashes and melting against her skin. Her body was filled with a nameless ache, anticipation coiling tighter and tighter around her heavy limbs.

The noise Cullen made sounded almost pained. “Maker’s breath,” he said, “but you are beautiful. I… _want you_ so much.”

Elayne opened her eyes, flushing with answering heat—and the _look_ on his face was nearly enough to immolate her from the inside out. Andraste save her, but the sheer hunger in the Commander’s expression, the soul-deep ache, was like the shock of winter’s grasp. She gasped when he dropped the mask and dragged his fingers into the tangle of her curls, tipping her face up for a sudden, _aching_ kiss.

Her lips parted for his immediately, instinctively, arms twining around his neck as he yanked her close. They moaned together at the sudden brush of their bodies seconds before he licked deep into her mouth—hot, commanding, _taking_ even as a hand slid wonderingly down the curve of her spine. Maker, the marriage of the two, conquest and reverence combined, was enough to send that first stirring of heat flooding through her body in helpless, messy waves. She rocked up onto the balls of her feet, whine caught deep in her throat at the scalding _drag_ of her body against his.

_Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes_. Elayne squeezed her thighs together; she was already so very wet, clit throbbing in time with her pulse—it was mad how quickly she responded to him. A sharp wind blew, buffeting the glittering ends of her train around their legs as Cullen drove his tongue into her mouth, stroking deep, _slick_. Each hot thrust stoked the fire inside her higher and higher. As their tongues tangled together, she could imagine his calloused fingers spreading her open. She could imagine his hot breath on her dripping folds, and then, Maker, that _tongue_ teasing along her slick flesh, stubbled chin brushing her skin as he traced the very tip through the depths of her sex.

Elayne moaned, hips pushing forward roughly; she could feel his cock through layers of cloth, already hard, eager, aching just as bad as _she_ ached. She rubbed up instinctively, riding the sudden jerk of his hips—and cried out when Cullen grabbed her around the waist and yanked her up roughly against the hard planes of his body. She was pulled off her feet, breasts scraping over his coat, knees lifting instinctively to grip his narrow hips as Cullen wrapped his lips around her seeking tongue and began to _suck_.

She thrashed, keening, and Cullen stumbled back a step, another. One broad palm was cupping the curve of her ass to help brace her weight, but the other was no longer touching her. Elayne thrust her tongue past the delicious suction, feeling each tug of his mouth echo all the way down to her core, and raked her nails along the slope of his shoulder, his arm, searching for his hand. She needed it on her; didn’t he understand that she’d go mad if he didn’t touch her now?

But Cullen’s other hand was fumbling behind him, out of reach—and it wasn’t until Elayne lifted her head with a gasp to look over his shoulder that she realized he was reaching blindly for the door. They were only a few steps away, and Cullen…

Cullen’s mouth was on her neck, his stubble blazing a path across the sensitive skin. She gripped his shoulder hard and let her head fall back with a breathless noise, using the momentum of their bodies to fully wrap her legs around his waist. Her gorgeous, glittering skirt had been ruched up by the movement, exposing her bare legs to the cold. She wished fervently that she truly was dressed in starlight; her mind was filled with a feverish image of its heavy folds suddenly drifting away into the night, leaving her naked and writhing against him.

Fuck, she wanted to feel velvet and fur against her bare skin. She wanted…

They stopped when his knuckles hit the door with a resounding _thump_. Elayne was bent back in a sinuous arch, hair tumbling behind her, neck exposed, breasts heaving against restricting cloth with every breath. Cullen’s mouth had traveled down to where they threatened to spill free, his breath coming in harsh pants that painted her skin with puffs of frost. She tangled her fingers in his hair, curling around him—trapping him against the heave of her breasts—while he fumbled a key in the lock. Watching his fingers twist the metal made her ache from anticipation.

“I want to feel you inside me,” Elayne murmured and Cullen very nearly dropped the key with a curse. She turned her face, cheek against his hair, laughing.

“Maker’s breath, woman,” he said; his grip on her bottom tightened and he redoubled his efforts, turning his head as he fumbled again—and then the tumblers clicked into place and he was grinning against her shoulder. “Thank Andraste. I wasn’t sure I could let you go long enough to get the damn thing open.”

Oh, how she adored this man. “Don’t,” Elayne said, carding her fingers through his hair, nails raking lightly over the scalp. He carried her into his all-too-familiar office and closed—then locked—the door behind them before tossing the key blindly toward his desk. Maker, that desk. Would he take her against it, rutting hard against the scarred wood that saw troop movements, reports, letters penned and sealed with the mark of the Inquisition? Would she ever be able to stand across from him and discuss business again if he did?

“Oh,” she breathed, riding out the shudder that worked its way down her body at that image. Or maybe, she thought, not the desk—maybe he’d shove her up against the bookshelf just like this; he’d fumble between their bodies to loosen the ties of his trousers and push into her with the scent of old parchment and ink filling her lungs with each stuttery gasp.

But he was bracing her carefully against him and moving toward the ladder instead. “Hold on,” Cullen said against the shell of her ear, breath hot—tongue flicking against the sensitive lobe even _hotter_ seconds before he grabbed onto a rung and began to climb.

Elayne gave a startled yelp, legs tightening around Cullen’s waist as the world began to sway with the rhythm of his ascent. It was so bizarre, being pulled aloft this way, and yet…yet there was something so tender about it, too. Something about the way he moved so carefully to keep from jostling her that sent tracers of warmth spinning through her heavy limbs.

He loved her too. It was so, so amazing to be reminded of that in all the little ways he touched her, looked at her, cared for her. He loved her, he wanted her—they were going to have this.

“I’ve never been up here before,” Elayne said quietly as they crested the top. Then she gave a startled laugh as he gripped her around the waist and lifted her smartly over the edge, until she was sitting at the apex of the ladder, balanced on the lip of the opening…thighs spread wide by the sheer breadth of his shoulders. Elayne leaned back on her hands and arched a teasing brow at him.

His lips curved into a return smirk. “I know,” Cullen said. He remained where he was—feet braced on the ladder, head and shoulders alone inside his makeshift bedroom—and deliberately paused to admire the view.

Elayne bit her bottom lip, feeling the flush sweep across her cheeks again. Part of her wanted to look around and see what Cullen’s bedchamber was like, but another—more urgent—part was all too happy to remain as she was. She slowly spread her thighs wider, catching the trailing ends of her bejeweled dress and sliding the hem slowly up up up to reveal pale calves, knees…thighs. Cullen dropped his chin to watch the slow progression; his hands were balled up on either side of her hips and she could _feel_ his harsh breaths against her slowly bared skin.

She shivered, watching as the jewels caught starlight seeping through a jagged hole in the ceiling. She _sparkled_ like living light, and in all her years of serving under the yoke of magic, she had never felt so powerful.

Bare peaches-and-cream skin; soft, round thighs. Revealed inch by inch as she slowly hitched up the glittering prism of her skirt.

“Maker take you,” Cullen said. His voice was a broken husk, and his eyes when he looked up at her were nearly black. She sucked in a breath, body throbbing in response. She was bare beneath the fall of her skirts and so close to being exposed that each pump of blood was an illicit thrill. When he reached down to span her thighs with those big, calloused hands, she jumped—then _moaned_ as he slid them up her trembling skin to pause just below that taunting hem of her skirt, still only _just_ covering her slick cunt. “I can— I can smell how much you want me.”

_Fuck_. Her hips jerked up once hard at those words, and she scrambled to catch herself as she went boneless with want. Her palms slapped against the floorboards and she arched into a sinuous pull—skirt rustling and pooling around her waist, revealing her, as Cullen hooked her legs over the breadth of his shoulders and suddenly pressed his advantage.

Maker, he was so strongly built that her thighs were spread _wide_ by him, exposing her cunt to the cool night air. Elayne gave a breathless sob and fell back weakly against the worn floorboards. Her hands clutched into helpless fists and her skirts spilled across her stomach as Cullen cupped her ass in both hands and lifted her hips. She was arched in a bow, weight shared between his careful grip and her shoulder blades as he leaned in…and slowly dragged his tongue up the trembling flesh of her inner thigh.

“O-oohh,” she breathed, voice catching mid-word. Cullen paused to leave a sucking kiss against her skin. The rasp of stubble was enough to steal a moan, and she felt—She—

There were _no words_ for what she felt. She was a coiled fist of want. Her breasts ached, nipples tight against the fitted bodice, and fuck, _fuck_ , she wanted to rip the heavy cloth away and bare herself to him. She wanted—

“ _Cullen!_ ” she cried, nails scrabbling at the old wood at the first hot puff of his breath. Elayne bit her lip and turned her cheek against the floorboards, gasping in ragged breaths; Cullen just growled and bit lightly at the bared skin before slicking his tongue along the aching slit. “Oh, oh, oh Maker.”

“All this time,” he said, each word felt more than heard. His grip on her ass tightened and she stifled a cry as he lifted her higher, lips trailing across the naked core of her. Her breaths were coming in sobs, body _straining_ toward his. The tension was incredible, delicious, and she thought she could come from just the vibration of his words against her sopping skin. “All through our dance, you were _naked_ beneath your skirts. Maker take you, I ought to—”

He didn’t finish the threat; Commander Cullen was a man of action, a man of little patience—and she had tested it long enough. He pressed close and dragged his tongue through her aching folds, easily riding the sharp buck of her hips. Maker, Maker, the way he moaned at her taste, then speared his tongue inside her body…it was enough to drive her crazy, sobbing breaths loud in his lonely tower, drowning out the slick sound of him circling her clit with the very tip of his tongue.

Elayne was already on edge; she’d been ready for what felt like forever, so keyed up she nearly shattered at the first drag of heat. But Cullen was in no mood to be kind, pausing with his tongue pressed flat against her aching clit, refusing to give her the rhythm she needed. “Cullen,” Elayne moaned, hands moving restlessly. She dragged her fingers through her hair, down her own throat, across the straining bodice to cup her breasts— _needing_ more stimulation. He gave a huff of breath against her shivering skin and teased his tongue down her slit to flick against the wings of her labia. So good, so good, so impossibly _good_ , but not what she needed, not what she— “ _Cullen_ , please.”

“Driving me insane,” Cullen said, words muffled. One hand slid up as he shifted, then the other, until she was braced by the strength of her thighs hooked over his broad shoulders alone. She could feel the soft press of fur against bare skin, the glide of that wicked tongue…and then a thick, sword-calloused finger dragging against her folds before sliding into her body by careful degrees.

“ _Please!_ ” She wanted to say more—to beg, to rail at him, to cry his name—but it felt as if a fist had closed around her heart. Elayne could barely pull in enough air, panting wantonly, desperately. She clenched around that single finger, riding out his heart-felt curses. When he pushed a second finger inside of her, she keened; when he crooked his fingers and pressed close to swipe his tongue around where they stretched her aching skin, she nearly screamed.

She was so close it was a kind of madness. Head thrashing, hips twisting, body straining as her muscles went impossibly tight. The cage of her bodice made it an agony to breathe, and Cullen’s _tongue_ flicking against the throb of her clit even as he thrust his fingers rhythmically into her hungry body—

Fuck, _fuck_.

Ice spilled from her fingertips, sweeping across the floor in a musical lilt as she tightened her thighs and ground herself against his face. The tease of fur and velvet was too much; the swirl of his tongue against her hooded clit was too much; those fingers crooking inside her body as she rode each delicious swell of pleasure was _too much_.

Too much and not enough and she needed to come more than she needed to breathe. Maker take her, she was cracked open and aching beneath him, caught in the shimmer of lust and her own powers as Cullen growled against her sopping folds and wrapped his lips around her clit. _Sucking_. Pulling at the tight bud until—

Until—

“Maker, I want you,” he groaned against her bared flesh, tongue chasing his words over her skin until she was writhing. “Wanted you for so long, from the beginning, so beautiful, so—” He hooked his fingers deep, adding a third; it stretched her wide, made it burn, and there was nothing she wanted more than to feel him shoving her against the floor and slamming into her with ragged, needy jerks of his hips. She pulled in a serrated breath, thumbing her own nipples in time with the flicks of his tongue—and then he was murmuring so very, very soft against her skin:

“I love you. I will always love you. Come for me, sweetheart.”

And that—that voice against her flesh—sent her staggering over the edge. Elayne came with a breathless shout, arching beneath him, bowed and shuddering as it swept through her with incredible force. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, didn’t want to do any of those things as pure sensation threatened to drown her. It carried her in crashing undulations, spilling messily from her shuddering form…then leaving her in slow ebbs. Shivering. Muscles jumping deliciously beneath her skin.

Oh _Maker_.

“Cullen,” Elayne gasped when it was done, collapsing bonelessly against the floorboards. The ice broke and dissipated around her in a halo of shimmering crystals, and she was all at once aware that she was sprawled in a fortune of jewelry and shimmering cloth, bared from the waist down, staring up at—

Was that a hole in Cullen’s ceiling?

“Beautiful,” he said again, pulling back to kiss her thighs. Cullen slowly withdrew his fingers, riding out the hitch of her hips with a pleased murmur. He pressed a big hand to the slope of her stomach, thumb rubbing soothingly across her bodice as he very deliberately caught her eye and lifted his other hand to suck her juices from his fingers.

Elayne shuddered. “Oh, you wicked man,” she said with a breathless laugh. Cullen grinned back, laugh lines forming around his eyes. He rose a step, then another, carefully crawling over her body as he finally fully entered his bedroom. When he wrapped his strong arms around her, gathering her close to his chest, she felt so impossibly safe. Cherished. Elayne pressed her cheek against the pounding of his heart and let herself be lifted oh-so easily. The long sweep of her train fell around them as Cullen stood with her in his arms, casting beams of light about the hushed, moonlit room.

It felt, she realized, like that moment he’d found her in the snowdrift, battered from the escape from Haven. The way he’d wrapped her in his coat and held her against the solid wall of his body had been the only thing anchoring her to reality on that long-ago, terrible day. Now, months later, she felt the echo of memory—and the realization that no matter what happened, no matter what dark future tried to snatch her away, Cullen would always be there to gather her against him and be her shield against the world.

“I want you,” Elayne said as her lover carried her to the waiting bed. She reached up to cup his jaw, delighting in the brush of stubble against her palm and the way his lips parted at the weight of her gaze. “I’m always going to want you, Cullen.”

“Promise me,” he said as he laid her on the bed. He leaned in to kiss her once—slow and warm and sweet—before pulling back to begin carefully divesting her of her dress. Elayne moved to help, shivering as silk and jewels were pulled away, baring her skin piece by piece until she was naked in Cullen’s bed, face tipped up toward the moonlight, lips parted on all the promises trapped in her heart. Wholly herself and wholly _his_.

“Promise me,” he said again, one big hand spanning the curve of her hip. He pressed in, mattress dipping beneath his weight, and Elayne made a soft noise as Cullen moved to cover her. He was so big, he blocked out the world. There was nothing but his beloved face, his parted lips, his warm eyes filled with so much love and longing and _fear_ that her heart tripped painfully in her chest. She reached up to cup his face, drawing him down against her willing body. Velvet and metal and fur brushed bare skin; she shivered as she slid a thigh around his trim hip, dragging him close—feeling the heat of his erection through the fine leather of his trousers. “Promise me you’ll stay with me, Elayne.”

Elayne. Not Inquisitor, not Jenny, but _Elayne_. Now, here, that was important.

That was everything.

“I promise,” she whispered, and brought his mouth down to hers to seal the words with a kiss.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my thanks to thesecondseal (Ao3) / thesecondsealwrites (tumblr)! I so, so appreciate everything you did.
> 
> Art in Chapter Six by the incredible Feylen. Visit her tumblr to tell her how amazing she is! http://feylen.tumblr.com/
> 
> Art in Chapter Seven and Twenty-One by the incredible Aud-works. Visit her tumblr to shower praise on her! http://aud-works.tumblr.com
> 
> Art in Chapter Thirteen by the amazing NoImNotEvenSorry. http://noimnotevensorry.tumblr.com/ Go check out their tumblr and tell them how awesome they are!
> 
> Art in Chapter Eighteen by the amazing IrmaPrunesquallor. Go to http://irmaprunesquallor.deviantart.com/ to tell them how incredible they are!

She could kiss him for hours.

_Days._

Laying sprawled beneath the delicious weight of his body, feeling the drag of that fine coat against her bare skin, the rasp of his stubble as he kissed his way down her neck, her shoulder… Elayne was certain she could never grow tired of kissing and being kissed by this man she loved.

But it already wasn’t enough.

“Cullen,” she murmured as she dug her fingers into his hair. 

He made a low noise when she tugged just shy of too rough, pulling his face up to meet hers. She surged up into the kiss, lips parting eagerly. The first swipe of his tongue set her body aflame; the second stole a whimper from deep in her throat. She could still feel the echo of that tongue teasing against the impatient throb of her clit. Her entire body thrummed at the way it thrust between her lips now, following the shift of his thighs. Elayne arched, drawing her lover closer with a flick of her tongue and an unsubtle roll of her hips. The way he settled so _eagerly_ between the valley of her thighs was a deep, insistent ache. They fit like lock and key, shards, and ah _fuck_ the drag of his tongue against hers was driving her mad.

When he rocked forward, grinding their bodies together, the sudden conflagration was enough to have her bucking up with a muffled cry. Maker, he was so hard against her, erection trapped by fine leather, straining the laces as he thrust against her again. Again. Elayne gasped into the kiss, hungry noise swallowed when Cullen reached down to grip her hips— _holding_ her against the eager rut of his body.

She’d come already, should have been satiated, but Maker, all she wanted was to feel his hot skin beneath her hands, feel the ripple of tense muscles as he fought to hold himself back. She swiped her tongue deep into his mouth even as she pulled at the heavy coat, wanting… _Wanting…_

Just, just, _everything._

She pulled harder, fighting to get to bare skin. Elayne yanked roughly at his coat and a button suddenly popped free, skittering across the sheets. That was enough to have Cullen pulling back with a breathless, husky laugh; he rose up onto one hand, big body levered over hers. His eyes were dark with arousal, heavy-lidded, but his lips twisted into a broad, shameless smile. A dimple flashed at the corner of his lips, there and gone again like a flicker of distant lightning, and she thought, dazed:

_I’d give anything to see him like this every day._

Elayne reached up to cup Cullen’s cheek, thumb brushing over his full bottom lip. She found herself smiling back— _grinning_ up at him with a breathless, dizzy sort of joy. 

“Hi,” she said, then laughed.

Cullen turned his face to kiss her palm, lips twitching against her skin. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he teased, “but I’m fairly certain we’ve covered that base already.”

She backhanded his shoulder, laugh twisting into a moan at the shift of his hips. He was so hard, so impossibly hot against her that it was almost a madness. The way he was _watching_ her made her stomach twist in delicious knots…and yet his crooked smile was what set her heart to pounding. 

“What?” he asked, reading the flicker of emotion crossing her face.

How to answer that? She bit her lip and watched him through the dark fan of her lashes as she fumbled to find the right way to explain all that she was feeling. It was a tangled ball—a breathless, giddy ache where her heart used to be. There weren’t words enough to give it context. 

“I didn’t know it could be like this,” Elayne finally admitted. 

At the questioning arch of his brow, she flushed, turning her face away. Her long hair was spread loose and wild across his pillow; the moonlight sifted through the broken slats in his ceiling, painting the room in shades of blue and silver. It felt like the best sort of dream, like maybe if she just wanted it badly enough, it would never end. “Joyful, I suppose. Growing up in the Circle, I thought… I…” 

She wet her lips and fought to say what was filling her heart near to bursting. “Every time I tried to imagine what… _being with_ someone would be like…I didn’t realize it could feel like this. So light inside. More than bodies or desire or… Just. _More_. I’m glad I found out with you.”

She let out a puff of breath, annoyed at how inadequate words were in the face of the effervescent joy filling her chest, her breath, her limbs. “That sounds stupid.”

“No.” Cullen caught her chin between thumb and forefinger and slowly turned her face back to his. The smile was gone, but she could still see the beautifully uncomplicated happiness shining in his eyes; she could feel it in the brush of his thumb across her lower lip. “No, it doesn’t sound stupid at all.”

“I feel like I’ve been waiting for you,” Elayne whispered. “All my life. If you want me, I’ll be yours until I die.”

Cullen closed his eyes at that and let out a harsh, almost pained breath. “ _Maker_. Elayne, I… _yes_.”

She pressed up, rising within the circle of his arms to slide her own around his neck, pulling him close until their foreheads were pressed oh-so intimately together. She could feel the tremor running through his body, could feel the ebb and flow of desire and old pain and new joy moving beneath his skin in dizzying waves. When he expelled a sudden harsh breath, she filled her lungs with him; her fingers dug into the wide span of his shoulders and one bare thigh wrapped snug around his waist.

Protective. Fierce. Loving. She would do anything to keep this man safe, to quiet his demons until he finally found his much-deserved peace. 

“Cullen,” she said in the scant space between them. The word was like a benediction.

“ _I love you_ ,” he breathed—and all at once he seemed to shatter.

Cullen caught her mouth in a hard kiss, tongue thrusting deep, insistent, all of a sudden edging on desperate. His hands dropped to her waist to drag her close none-too-gently, and Elayne moaned at the hard rock of his hips. He was murmuring into the kiss, tongue twisting against hers as he shaped the words, but all she could do was feel them, swallow them whole.

He was electric, surging up, driving her against the mattress. It was as if her words had tapped into something hidden deep and dark inside him, but she wasn’t afraid; she _thrilled_ at the barely leashed roughness of his touch, knowing in this moment she was giving him exactly what he most needed. When he dug calloused fingers into her hair and pulled her head back, she arched with the motion, gasping, _keening_. Elayne’s back bowed and her breasts dragged hard along velvet and fur; her entire world was narrowed down to him.

“Elayne,” he said, teeth scoring the line of her neck, down to her collarbone. 

His breath came in harsh pants and his hips moved in an unsteady rut, clothed erection dragging against her cunt hard enough to make her see stars. She thrust up against him, desperate to get closer; when his fingers dug tighter in her tangled curls and his teeth scored the tight clench of her nipple—back bowed, head fallen back, breasts aching—she cried out. _Writhing_.

Cullen turned his face, mouthing at the tight peaks. His breath came in hot pants against her skin as he laved a nipple, then caught it between his lips, tongue swirling scalding hot and _wet_. Elayne whined, twisting helplessly, and one strong arm caught her about the waist and dragged her up, up, up, until he was resting his weight on his knees and she was perched precariously against the tight muscles of his thighs, utterly at his mercy. She wrapped her legs around his waist and moaned at the deep tug of his mouth as he moved from one breast to the other, tasting, taking.

“Cullen,” she said, hands moving across his shoulders, up into his hair. She tugged the short golden curls fitfully even as she strained to get closer, wanting more. The sheer power of his body was maddening; the way he moved her, _claimed_ her, refused to give her any quarter was driving her insane. “Please, _please_.”

He growled against her skin and dragged a hand from her waist and down her quivering flank even as he straightened to watch her with hungry ferocity. It felt as if she were in freefall, her perch precarious, utterly under his control. When his calloused fingers trailed back up her inner thigh, she muffled a whimper against the soft fur at his shoulders. When he slipped his hand between them and deliberately rubbed a knuckle against the sopping folds of her cunt, she jerked and bit at the soft nub of his coat, fighting to stifle her cry.

And slowly, slowly, slowly, he began to still again. She could feel the barely leashed violence in him gentling as she responded, as if his focus were narrowing down again from the hot rush of his need to hers. When he turned his hand between them, palm cupped against the soft give of her stomach, long sword-roughened fingers pressing into the tight grip of her body, she gave up trying to be still and let him hear just _how much_ she ached for him.

“ _Please_ ,” Elayne cried, turning to kiss his neck, his jaw. She could feel the wild race of his pulse against her lips, and she keened against his skin as he drove his fingers deep inside her, deeper, palm grinding relentlessly against the throb of her clit. She was sliding down the slope of his thighs, precarious balance offset by the thrust of his strong hand, and it was all she could do to cling to him, writhing and aching and _begging_ , as the tension began to build again. “I love you, I need, Cullen, I need you, please.”

_Please oh please oh please oh please oh please._

When he gripped her hips with his free hand, Cullen was almost shocking in his gentleness—the frenzy was still there, but the rough edges had somehow smoothed again, gone sweet. _He doesn’t want to hurt me,_ Elayne thought as he lifted her up and away, laying her out across his bed like something infinitely precious. She sprawled back in a tangle of heavy, flushed limbs and golden hair, watching him as he moved over her— _fierce_ in his ache, in his desire to keep her safe even from himself. 

And, sparking from deep inside, was a growing certainty: _No matter his demons, he will never hurt me._

“Cullen,” Elayne murmured as he slipped his fingers free. 

He straightened fully and began unbuttoning his coat, unlacing his trousers, hands shaking. She reached out to help him, but he caught her wrists and kissed the knuckles before she could touch him. It seemed there were some limits to his self-control, and he didn’t want them to be tested again. 

“I love you.”

“I know,” he said, throwing his shirt blindly behind him, eyes locked on hers. His voice was shaken, husky; moonlight painted the scars criss-crossing his shoulders and broad chest in pale silver. “Maker, I know, and I don’t—”

He kicked aside the leather trousers, hands braced on either side of her head, eyes never leaving hers. It was incredible, the way he could make her feel with just a look, a touch—Elayne slid her hands up his trembling biceps to his shoulders as he finally levered himself over her, naked flesh to naked flesh, something deep and wordless passing between them.

She didn’t need him to finish his choked-off sentence to read the conflict in his eyes: _Maker, I know, and I don’t deserve you._

 _Yes_ , she tried to say as she spread her thighs in welcome, as she wound her arms around his neck and drew him close, as she poured herself into the kiss as if to seal a sacred vow. _Yes, you do._

Cullen made a noise that pierced her heart—and with a rough hitch of his hips, he was pushing inside the welcoming give of her body.

The last time they had been together like this, there had been masks and lies forming a barrier between them. Now there was nothing—just the unsteady cadence of his breath, the way he filled her, the stutter of his hips as he fought to keep in control. She parted her lips at the first stroke of his tongue, shifting, moving— _undulating_ as he let out a shaky groan and began to pull back, then thrust into her body again.

She cried out, voice lost within the heat of his mouth, and rocked forward to meet the next thrust. The feel of his cock driving into her was indescribable, undeniable. She felt each ragged hitch down to her core, and she wanted—fuck—she wanted everything, all at once. She wanted to be broken open and claimed; wanted to be cherished and cradled against his body; wanted rough hands and soft kisses and the sharp, breathless ache as pleasure continued to build and build and build inside her. His mouth was hot against hers, his hands worshipful as they spanned her body, and there was nothing she would have traded for this moment. There were no words but _please_ and _yes_ and _yours_.

When he gripped her hips and lifted her close, she went gladly, arms and legs twining around his powerful body, urging him deeper. The rhythm of his thrusts was incredible— _pounding_ into her in time with their panting breaths.

“Cullen,” she tried to gasp, but the words were stolen on a sharp exhalation, swallowed by his greedy mouth, and Maker, _Maker_ she felt tight as a drum inside. She was… She was…

He cupped her cheek with one big hand, thumb brushing her skin as he broke the kiss to meet her eyes. Golden-brown, swallowed by black, hooded and heated and so full of emotion she thought she’d rip apart at the sight. “Maker’s breath,” he said, reaching between their straining bodies with his free hand—fingertips brushing over the place of their joining, circling her clit as his thrusts went erratic, wild. “You’re so— _beautiful_. Come for me, Elayne. I want to…I _need_ to see you come.”

“ _Oh_.” She arched, twisting hard; the way he was watching her, the roughness of his voice, the stroke of his clever fingers… _all_ of it combined slammed into her like a giant’s fist, and it was all she could do to hold on as orgasm overtook her. Heat unspooled low in her gut, messy and sharp and _perfect_ as she shuddered helplessly against him, trusting him to hold her together even as everything shattered.

Elayne grabbed at the sheets, fingers suddenly _freezing_ as ice spread along the peaks and valleys. She fought to keep it in, keep herself under control, but each hard slam of his hips sent sparks scattering through her limbs. She turned her face with a wordless mewl, breath coming in white clouds as her body slowly began to unwind from its tighttighttight clench.

And still, he moved within her.

“Cullen,” Elayne moaned, legs tightening. She watched him from beneath lowered lashes, hips rocking up to meet each insistent thrust. He was a wild thing, lips parted, eyes locked on her face as if he could never bring himself to look away, staring with something very much like awe as the ice crystals dissipated from their silvery halo. She could tell he was close from the tightness of his body, hips driving her deep into the mattress, one hand scrambling for some kind of purchase.

Impulsively, Elayne reached out and snagged Cullen’s hand, fingers tangling with his, and that—that point of connection—was enough. Cullen gave a strangled cry, quickly muffled against the curve of her throat as he thrust again, _again_ —and came gasping her name.

 _I love you,_ she thought, heart wrung so tight it felt like pain. She squeezed his fingers when he clenched her hand, and she soothed her other hand down his quivering back, drawing him slowly back to himself as the crest of it passed and he was left head bowed, gasping.

Elayne smiled as she sank back against the pillows, watching the tense line of Cullen’s strong body slowly begin to uncoil. She shivered, arching against the aftershocks, and slid her hands back up into his hair. When he dropped his head forward, she gave golden curls a sharp tug.

“Maker,” he managed to croak against the curve of her shoulder. Then he kissed the sweat-slick skin there, soft and sweet, his hands soothing down her trembling skin.

Full to bursting with affection, Elayne pulled him up for a languid kiss. She thought, briefly, about one of the silly fears that had kept her hesitant on that first daring night of the ball, aware of eyes brushing over her from men and women who all too glad to take anything she offered. She turned her face, blushing.

“What?” he asked, reaching up to tenderly brush a stray hair from her face.

Elayne deliberately tightened her body and giggled at his heart-felt groan. “Mm, I was just thinking: now you really do have an exciting chapter for a future memoir,” she teased. “Farmboy turned Templar turned Commander, conqueror of the Herald of Andraste.”

He laughed and nipped at her lower lip—both of them shuddering together as he reluctantly slid out of her. “No, I think not,” Cullen said, wrapping a strong arm around Elayne’s waist and rolling to the side, hoisting her until she lay half-sprawled across his naked body. His firm chest was beaded with sweat and his hair was a holy mess. She had never seen such a contented expression on his face before. “This is mine, to keep close to my heart; I wouldn’t share it with anyone for the world.”

“The things you say,” she breathed, leaning in to brush their lips together. 

Then, sighing happily, she wriggled down to curl more comfortably into the crook of his arm. Elayne lay with her head pillowed against his shoulder, breaths slowly beginning to normalize. Cullen had a protective arm wrapped tight around her middle, the other playing with the long coils of her hair. She remembered the way he’d touched it before, back at the unmasking—and Cole’s words, a riddle suddenly reshaping, becoming clear as her world reoriented around her.

He wanted her. He’d wanted her as Jenny because she’d reminded him of Elayne—in the end, he didn’t see her until her hair was dark and her face was masked, but he preferred her as she was _now_ all the same.

She could really have this, if she dared.

“Things will be different,” Elayne said, running her fingers lightly through the springy golden hairs scattered across his chest. “Now that we’re…this.”

“Things are always different.” 

Elayne closed her eyes and softly kissed a scarred shoulder. She supposed there was some truth in that—no matter how they fought to keep on steady ground, the world always seemed ready the send them spinning.

Farm boy, Templar, Commander.

Noblewoman, Circle mage, Herald of Andraste.

It was a wonder they could keep on their feet at all.

“It’s all right,” she decided, cuddling closer to his warmth. “We’ll figure it out.” 

She made a low noise at the feel of his lips pressed against the crown of her head, melting at that small, almost casual show of affection.

Life had brought her through many strange twists and turns, and the last few days had seen her daring things she never thought she would before. All to end up here, curled within Cullen’s arms, safe. Perhaps, if she looked at it that way, change wasn’t so bad at all.

Perhaps it was exactly what she’d been needing.

She pressed her hand over Cullen’s heart and sighed. The smell of his skin filled her lungs on each breath and the steady pound of his heart lulled her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt sheltered in this way—safe from whatever the world saw fit to throw at her. Not for years. Not since before the Circle. Strange, she thought drowsily, that it took a former Templar to make her feel that way again. Just another change she was only too glad to adjust to.

 _Ours_ , she thought. _No matter how dark the world gets, or how frightening it may be, we’ll always have this to call ours._ And that, she supposed, was its own happily ever after.

Minutes passed. Their breaths filled the tower room, slow and steady. The stars stretched overhead, silent and beautiful and still.

And then: “Cullen?”

“Mm?” he murmured, drifting. Tired. For perhaps the first time in his life, utterly, blissfully content.

“ _Why_ is there a hole in your ceiling?”

 

**_THE END_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there's a chance there will be a companion piece from Cullen's POV, but I can't go into the details here. Please keep an eye on my tumblr for more information in the nearish future.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading along--and for all your amazing comments. You guys are seriously the best.


	23. Codex 1




	24. Codex 2

**i.**

She enters the room like dawn breaking over the cold hall  
red, heart’s blood red, pouring over her voluptuous form  
silk shimmering in the candlelight.  
.  
She shines, gold glinting in the valleys of her breasts  
in the dip of her back;  
red and gold like fiery temptation she strides forth  
a sea of masks, glittering and multiplicitous,  
turn toward her as if commanded.  
.  
Her skin flashing, pale and inviting, in the slits of her skirts,  
in the space between gold and red,  
as she makes her way into the crowd -  
into her crowd, for even as she moves forward they move back,  
afraid to be burned by pure temptation.  
.  
Her lips, blood-red, plump and inviting like the summer’s first pommes,  
twisted in a wicked grin;  
she knows what power she wields, the temptress,  
and she moves forward into the crowd  
the lioness in search of likely prey.  
.  
As if commanded too, he appears  
and the unstoppable woman is stopped.  
Her eyes are upon him in an instant;  
though he spans a mountain’s breadth  
and her, the delicate flame,  
she has her prey.  
.  
His coat the color of the night sky,  
inky blue on a starless night;  
his mask shines silver instead.  
She steps toward him, hand outstretched, the dawn on the night,  
and like the night he surrenders to her.  
.  
He pulls her close - she moves in close -  
magnets, attracted and attracting.  
As they begin to move the rest of the hall stops  
to watch their dance.  
.  
The tide turns, or she allows it to turn,  
allows her chosen to command the floor.  
He pulls her close, too close,  
and she doesn’t pull away.  
.  
He whispers sweet nothings to her, tips her head back,  
traces fingertips along the marble column of her neck.  
There is nothing, no one, in the room  
save her, the woman in red,  
and he, the man of the night.  
.  
But as all good things, the dance must end.  
They slow, they stop, they don’t move.  
It is as if time itself stops  
while the two remain entangled,  
enraptured in each other.  
.  
She speaks so that only he can hear,  
entrancing him deeper, deeper,  
and he pounces.  
Their lips meet with the force of an avalanche,  
wild and natural and devastating.  
The applause shakes the hall.  
.  
They broke apart, the night and the dawn,  
and the temptress bowed to her adoring crowd  
before she took her chosen in hand  
and departed the hall.

-The exalted Orlesian bard, _[Prince-everhard](http://prince-everhard.tumblr.com/)_  
Lord of onceuponachildhood,  
Upon the occasion of the grand Skyhold Masque

**ii.**

She steps into a crowd of masks  
Who gasp and spin and turn  
The sun itself upon the earth

The crowd is one, a rippling mass  
Who flee her, least they burn  
She meets their gaze, when they’ll meet hers

She steps forward, they step away  
She sweeps them with her gaze  
Leaving cinders in its scalding path

His whispered breath, as if to pray  
The crowd now a cursed maze  
Between him and his hearts other half

He is a man of silver and blue  
Where she is gold and red  
They have played a dangerous game

Yet the love upon his face, true  
to the dance floor he led  
And he danced with the living flame

They murmured with heads tilted in  
The crowd left far behind  
They cling to another, silver and gold

His hands trace down her pale, soft skin  
And in her hair they twined  
She pushed still closer, into his hold

The song trailed off, but passion stays  
And her lips he now claims  
applause pulls them apart too soon

They jump, and against him she sways  
She bows, but they do not stay  
For the sun has found her moon

-The honorable _Lady[Middlemistsred](http://middlemistsred.tumblr.com/),_  
Spinner of sighs, weaver of dreams,  
At the Skyhold Masque


	25. Cullen Companion Story

**All I Ask of You**

**Summary:** When Josephine suggested they throw an Orlesian masked ball, Cullen never once thought he might attend, much less find...and lose...and rediscover...the love of his life. 

Of course, with Dorian, Varric and Sera playing meddling Fairy Godmother, he probably should have seen it all coming. 

**OR:** Cullen's POV to As the World Falls Down. 

Find it here:  
http://archiveofourown.org/works/4088836/chapters/9209452 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [At the Stroke of Midnight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7165559) by [sewluscious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewluscious/pseuds/sewluscious)




End file.
